


The Great Depression (Or How Steve Learned to Love Bucky's Great Distention)

by starthief



Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: Belly Kink, Fat fetish, Feeding Kink, Gay, M/M, Masturbation, Size Difference, Size Kink, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chub kink, chubby chaser, chubby!bucky, fat admiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7189439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starthief/pseuds/starthief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A sort of younger, more rebellious take on pre-serum, pre-war Steve and Bucky. They’re about twelve to thirteen in the beginning, experiencing puberty and Great Depression New York. This is more of a take on comics Steve and Bucky, not so much their established history in the MCU, but I’m picturing them as Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan anyway. All mistakes aside, I hope it’s enjoyable! In this, Bucky is the same age as Steve, even though he’s supposed to be 5 years younger. No camp Lehigh. So sort of alternative universe? Set in like 1933 at the beginning. No established relationship until waaaay later. Mostly fluff, because what are plots? Tons of sexual tension and chubby Bucky. My awkward updates within chapters can be found at "update 6.15", and "update 6.17" Enjoy!<br/>Tumblr|star-thief</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. 1933

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of younger, more rebellious take on pre-serum, pre-war Steve and Bucky. They’re about twelve to thirteen in the beginning, experiencing puberty and Great Depression New York. This is more of a take on comics Steve and Bucky, not so much their established history in the MCU, but I’m picturing them as Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan anyway. All mistakes aside, I hope it’s enjoyable! In this, Bucky is the same age as Steve, even though he’s supposed to be 5 years younger. No camp Lehigh. So sort of alternative universe? Set in like 1933 at the beginning. No established relationship until waaaay later. Mostly fluff, because what are plots? Tons of sexual tension and chubby Bucky. My awkward updates within chapters can be found at "update 6.15", and "update 6.17" Enjoy!  
> Tumblr|star-thief

Bucky and Steve woke up with adrenaline pouring in their systems, grabbing their few things and making a run for it. Seconds ago they’d been asleep, but someone calling “Hey! You can’t be in there!” jumpstarted their systems, pushing them from zero to awake in practically no time. They slipped out one of the windows that was broken but not boarded, one of their planned escape routes, and snuck down the pipe. An angry man poked his head out the window, shouting threats, but Steve and Bucky were already too far down for the man to do anything, and the pipe wouldn’t support his weight. Steve, all seventy-five pounds of him, drops to the ground first, giving the healthier Bucky a leg down.  
So many businesses have closed in the last few months that so many warehouses had been newly abandoned, the once industrial New York suddenly vacant in the wake of banks closing. Franklin Roosevelt had been president for one month, and it was April, warm enough for the recently on his own Steve to sleep in leaky, poorly insulated buildings with Bucky. It was the Great Depression, and Brooklyn was their playground.  
“Thanks,” Bucky said to Steve, waiting for him next to the pipe.  
“Anytime,” Steve said with a weak smile, stomach growling loudly. He grimaced. “Sorry, I—“  
Bucky laughed and punched him on the shoulder, playfully (and Steve wasn’t about to show that it actually hurt a little). “No problem, pal. Let’s see what we can do about breakfast.”  
Steve was nearly afraid to ask. He knew that everything was tight for Bucky, and had been since his own parents died. Bucky had been more than willing to share his ‘home’ with Steve the last two weeks, and food was hard to come by. Every time Steve ate, he felt like he was taking food away from Bucky’s mouth. He began to protest, saying he was fine, but Bucky shook his head. “Nah. C’mon, you’re hungry.”  
Bucky took off toward the parking lot, and Steve ran after him. Soon, Bucky found a truck with a nice paper bag on the passenger’s seat. “Jackpot!” he exclaimed, shooting a dangerous smirk at Steve.  
“The truck’s locked,” Steve said, measuring his words, not wanting to sound scared. “Let’s go to the bakery and see if they’re throwing anything away—“  
Bucky cut him off. “Chicken, Rogers?” Steve cringed. What he’d meant to say did the exact opposite, provoking Bucky to pick up a rock and smash the window of the truck, grabbing the paper bag. Bucky looked inside, hesitantly, but his unsure smile soon widened. “Steve, it’s donuts!”  
Steve felt much better, especially after Bucky handed him a plain-frosted, his favourite kind. Bucky happily munched on a chocolate frosted. The warm feeling hit Steve’s stomach, waking him up and pushing him to go a few more hours, energy for his frail little body. But all too soon the donuts were gone, and the remaining third donut, jelly filled, lay on a napkin between them on the deteriorating parking lot. Bucky started to split it, but Steve shook his head. “I’m fine, Buck, you have it.”  
Bucky stared at him for a minute, then shrugging, and taking an enthusiastic bite, jelly smudging onto his mouth. He laughed, enjoying the powdered sugar smearing on his hands. Steve watched, glad to see Bucky so happy, so rare of an occasion. But Steve’s own traitorous stomach betrayed him, a low grumble filling the silence in the air. Bucky’s hand dropped to his lap, and his gleeful expression turned sad. “Oh, man, I’m sorry Steve, you should’ve said you’re still hungry.”  
“No, no!” Steve exclaimed, shifting his bag on the ground. “It wasn’t my stomach, just my bag, see? I’m not hungry, you enjoy it, Buck.”  
Steve could tell that Bucky didn’t believe him, not really, but he prayed that Bucky would just listen to his pitiful begging and just eat the damn donut. Although, it was strange to want Bucky to eat the donut so badly, especially when Steve really did want it. There was something in him, something deeper than hunger, that wanted to take care of Buck first, and also something else, something he really didn’t understand. All Steve knew was that they both got something from it: Bucky got another donut, and Steve got a strange tingly feeling low in his gut and a flush on his cheeks.  
Bucky shrugged and continued munching, pushing the pastry into his mouth. Soon it was gone, and Bucky was licking his fingers. He caught Steve’s expression and chuckled a little. “Sorry, pal, but you said I could have it. If you want it, you’ll have to come and get it now,” he added with a wink.  
The tingly feeling in Steve’s gut overtook his mind, and suddenly he was leaning over to Bucky’s powder-covered mouth, kissing him and licking the sweet sugar off his lips, tasting the jelly on his tongue. The flush in Steve’s cheeks went from dull embers to forest fire in seconds, lighting up his whole face. Caught in compete shock, Bucky slowly closed his eyes. Soon after he began to kiss back, Steve pulled away, embarrassed and unbelieving that he’d just done that. He’d never really had experience with girls before, and especially not when he was with Bucky. No one wanted the skinny little blond next to Bucky: his gorgeous chestnut hair, gentle blue eyes with long lashes, and plush lips. Soft, too, as Steve had discovered. Every girl loved Bucky, and Bucky loved to tease girls. He’d call them pretty and take the bows from their hair and hold them up in the air higher than they could grab. All the girls their age loved Bucky. It sort of came as no surprise that Steve would want Bucky, too. 

\--  
Bucky could hardly process what just happened. Not because he’d never even thought about it, definitely no. Because recently he’d had a lot of strange dreams about it. Ever since his body had started changing, girls liking him more, hair growing in odd places, every night when he shut his eyes, it was Steve’s sharp ones he saw with his mind. Skinny little Steve’s hands on him, bony fingers pressed up against Bucky’s embarrassingly soft sides, Steve looking down at Bucky’s shameful erection, Steve licking his lips with determination and then pressing them against Bucky’s own full lips, pushing him against a wall. Bucky would wake up panting from those dreams, covered in sweat, and something else in his underwear. It was normal, he figured, to have feelings for people, and dreams like that, but Bucky wasn’t gay. And hell, that was only while he was asleep. When he was awake and with Steve, he thought about kissing him then, too. Thought about cupping his scrawny little chin in his hands and kissing Steve’s cute little face.  
It was especially hard to keep his feelings away when Steve had started to live with him. Bucky was used to being alone ever since his own parents had died. He’d never really had any friends even back when times were better. As a little kid, a lot of mothers didn’t want their kids to play with the dirty, homeless one who had to fight for his meals, and the fights showed up on his face. He’d come to doors with a bloody nose, asking if Jimmy or Georgie could come out and play, and Jimmy or Georgie were always sick. Bucky was the troubled kid, right up until the time when he’d met someone who got in fights even more than him.  
Bucky was fishing for dinner in some alleyway, when he heard some kids punching another kid. He poked his head around the corner to see some skinny kid, no older than about eight, getting beat up by two ten year olds. There was a little girl standing there too, Jenny. Bucky recognized her from the neighbourhood. From what he could tell, the ten year olds were picking on the girl, and the scrawny kid stood up for her. No stranger to injustice himself, Bucky bravely ran over and told the big kids to quit it, being eleven himself.  
“Hey, you guys, cut it out. This little guy didn’t do anything to hurt you, and he can’t defend himself either. Leave him alone.”  
Bleeding and wheezing behind Bucky, the little kid spat some blood and a tooth to one side, putting his fists up in front of his face. “What are you talking about?” he panted. “I could do this all day.”  
A light like a switch went off in Bucky’s brain, and he slugged one of the big kids right in their stupid gut. “Hey!” the other one shouted, and tried to take a swipe at Bucky’s face. The little kid tripped him, and he landed on the ground with a painful thud. He stood, crying. “You-you broke my nose!” he sobbed, tugging on his friend. They turned and ran down the alleyway.  
Bucky turned with an amused expression to the kid. “That was pretty brave. Stupid, but brave.”  
The kid smiled at him. “Thanks. No one’s ever stood up for me like that before.”  
Bucky knew then that he wanted to stand up for this kid for the rest of his life.  
He extended a hand. “James Buchanan Barnes.”  
The kid stuck out a skinny hand, all bones and veins. “Steven Grant Rogers.”  
Steve had immediately taken Bucky home to meet his mom, Sarah. Sarah hadn’t turned Bucky away when she saw how dirty he was. She hadn’t even minded when he admitted that he was an orphan. She even offered him a place to stay, but Bucky didn’t know what was okay, so he lied and said he had a place to live. She’d given him a great meal, one better than he’d had in years, and he wondered how the hell Steve stayed so skinny. He found out that Steve wasn’t eight at all, but eleven, just like Bucky was. From that moment on they were inseparable, and Steve got into less fights with Bucky around. Bucky had fought kids four years older than him on a daily basis, so the ten year olds that gave Steve a hard time were no problem.  
Then Sarah had died two weeks ago, and Steve goes around with Bucky now.  
Steve was still skinny, he’d always been, and short too, but puberty had crept up on him sooner than it had on Bucky. His voice had deepened, almost overnight, and his cute baby face had turned to a bony and hardened one, although that could be the malnourishment. Still, something inside Steve had changed. He’d started calling Bucky ‘Buck’ with that new, deep voice, and every time he did, Bucky’s voice caught in his throat. His mouth went dry, and all the blood drained from his face and rushed somewhere else. Yep, Bucky got a hard-on from his best friend. Things had been changing. Steve had turned into a skinny little man, and Sarah’s death had forced him to have all kinds of responsibilities. Bucky still took care of him best he could, but he got the feeling that somehow Steve could manage on his own.  
So even though in Bucky’s dreams it was always Bucky who started the kiss, it kind of came as no surprise that Steve would be the one to kiss Bucky.  
So why the hell had Steve pulled away right when Bucky was about to return the kiss? He panicked. He’d waited too long. He should have pressed back right away, put his hands around Steve’s scrawny little neck and kissed back. Now Steve was looking embarrassed and everything was on the line, and Bucky had to take care of Stevie like he always had.  
“Hey, Rogers, want to go down to the harbour and see if Jenny’s throwing a party?” he said, nearly wanting to take it back right away. Change the subject, that was good. But change it to dames? Steve had just made it clear that he wanted Bucky. Or did he? Bucky wasn’t sure what to read out of this, what was okay. The lines were always skewed with Steve. He didn’t know what was okay. They’d had sleepovers before. Earlier in April when it was still cold in mornings before the sun had chased away the frost, they’d huddled together for warmth, Bucky’s solid body cradling Steve’s shivering one.  
Steve interrupted the storm of Bucky’s thoughts, and good thing, too. “Yeah, sure!”  
Bucky was so relieved. He’d picked the right topic. They got up and made their way over to the docks. They arrived somewhere halfway between lunch and dinner. Jenny was a year older than both of them, but she’d been in their debt ever since that night Bucky and Steve met, and she’d thanked both of them as her brave heroes, but made it clear that she liked Bucky better. Bucky was always trying to be a wingman for Steve, make sure that if he was dancing with a girl, Steve wasn’t alone in some corner, smiling and telling him that he was fine, but by the end of the night it was Bucky who was sitting with a dame on the roof, getting kissed on the cheek.  
Jenny’s father owned a fishing company or something, and a big warehouse to put all the boats in, but recently he’d had to lay off more than half of his workers. On Friday nights, Jenny had all her friends come over to dance like they were at prom. Not that Bucky had gone to school since fourth grade—or Steve, since sixth. But both of them were getting taller, and older and older girls were dancing with them. It was still the swinging thirties, and the real heart of America was with those girls with glasses and braces and torn dresses, doing the jitterbug in their hand-me-down shoes.  
If there would be any party, it would be starting later, after dinner, but Jenny could always use help setting up. And if not, then the three of them could have a party. Jenny could always use help with something. 

\--  
Steve sat on the end of the dock. The water was way too far to dip his toes into, but he sat there anyway, splashing his bare feet in the air. Buck had made sure he had someone to dance with, a pretty brunette two years and about seven inches taller than him, but she’d left Steve about an hour ago. He knew that she was just dancing with him to be polite, and he figured he’d let her go be with her friends. She wasn’t the one he really wanted to be dancing with, anyway. After she’d ran off, Steve had sat down on one of the tables and watched Buck dance with a blonde, his hand on her belted waist, as he smiled secretively and whispered something in her ear, and she laughed, pretty mouth done in red.  
Bucky had come over and checked on Steve several times, almost angry the blonde had gone off, but Steve had just said that his asthma was bothering him. After definitely reassuring Bucky that yes, Steve was fine being alone, he’d gone out to the docks, the twinkling lights and radio leaking into the night behind him.  
Jenny joined him, thanking him for setting up for the party, and kissing him on the cheek. Steve would’ve been shocked and a little pleased about three weeks ago, but he could remember nothing else but his mouth on Bucky’s. Buck had made it clear that he thought of Steve as nothing more than a friend, and Steve was glad that he’d changed the subject. They should talk about it, Steve knew that, but he would rather them go back to being friends than Bucky trying to do something he didn’t want, or worse. Steve would even go through more days of him biting his tongue and sitting on his hands, sneaking glances of Bucky whenever he thought he wasn’t looking, long arms and tan skin and broad shoulders and soft midsection, that tiny little layer that was barely noticeable except to the most scrutinizing of eyes, just a soft hint of padding that reminded Steve of anything other than days when there wasn’t enough food to draw him out of bed.  
Steve stared angrily into the dark water below him. He shouldn’t be feeling those things about Bucky. He should want girls. He should be in there, talking up dames like Bucky did, those smooth lines and that easy smile, with the smallest bit of dangerous to get them to want him all the more. 

\--  
Bucky was getting a blowjob. Not his first, admittedly, but probably his best. It was the pretty brunette, the one he’d been dancing with. She’d smiled at him with her red mouth and pulled him by his shabby tie into one of the back offices, unzipped his fly and took him into her mouth. He’d put his hands in her curly hair, holding her head there and grabbing at her scalp with the pleasure of it. He’d already been hard and he’d come almost embarrassingly soon, worked up from…  
From thinking about Steve, if he was being honest.  
He could feel Steve sitting over there, as it always happened at dances, watching him. Steve always had such a strange expression on his face when Bucky danced with dames. Not jealousy. Not anger. Not anything Bucky expected. Almost… almost like Steve was proud of Bucky. Happy for him. Glad that Bucky could get out there and have fun. Whenever Bucky was enjoying himself, even if Steve wasn’t, Steve seemed happy anyway. It was like if Steve had control of things, he’d make sure that Bucky never ran out of dances or girls or donuts.  
Bucky could almost imagine what Steve would say now, in a weird kind of way. Not that he’d tell Steve. He’d feel bad about it. He was nearly sure that the farthest Steve had ever gone with a girl was holding hands. But Bucky was enjoying it, and he knew Steve would be happy for him, like Steve was always protecting him from the depression that settled across America, and any semblance of a happy life for Bucky made Steve happy.  
So he just enjoyed the moment while he could, her nice tongue working along him until he came, kissing her once more before she explained that she’d probably never see him again, for some reason or other. Bucky wasn’t really listening, and it was nice to not worry about a future, or the next move, or what was okay and where the lines were.  
It was close to midnight, and zipping himself up, Bucky grabbed his hat and left the building, knowing that Steve would be on the docks.  
He came up behind him and sat down next to him, punching his shoulder lightly. Steve didn’t move, looking into the inky water below them. “Hey, pal,” he said softly, never quite knowing what was on Steve’s mind recently.  
“Hey.”  
“You okay?”  
“Yeah.” Steve looked at him quickly, but it was more of his eyes grazing across Bucky’s face than eye contact.  
“You ready to go home?” The word ‘home’ hung in the air. They didn’t have a permanent apartment to stay in, and they most likely wouldn’t be able to go back to the warehouse if they’d been found out. What Bucky meant was, “you ready to go look for a place to sleep in that isn’t too dirty?” but ‘home’ sounded much nicer.  
“Yeah.” Steve stood, rocking a little on the uneven dock. He began to walk, the strap of his bag cutting into his bony little shoulder.  
“Here, let me grab that,” Bucky started, lifting the strap.  
“No, Buck—“ Steve protested, but it was already too late. The useless buckle on the bag flipped open, and the bag fell to the dock, Steve’s contents rolling out. Nothing unusual. A change of clothes, a picture of his mom. A plastic bag full of money.  
“Stevie,” Bucky breathed, picking it up. “Steve, what’s—“  
Steve cut him off. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I’ve been saving up, for us to buy an apartment of our own. I’m tired of us always running. I’m buying us a real home.”  
Bucky whistled. “Is this enough?”  
Steve nodded. “I found an apartment that only asks 13 a month.”  
Bucky looked him in the eyes. “Are you sure?”  
“That’ll last us six months. And if I get a job, maybe more.”  
Bucky suddenly felt like they were playing house, like some new couple that was just starting life, fresh and young with smiles on their faces and dreams in their hearts. Even though they were younger than most couples like that, Bucky somehow felt older, like he knew that happiness wouldn’t ever come. Not for them, at least. Happiness could come to rich people who had enough to ride above the trash, but not to two dirty orphans. “Shit, Stevie.”  
Steve smiled. “Now that the surprise is ruined, wanna go there tonight?”  
“Absolutely,” Bucky said enthusiastically. He couldn’t believe that Steve had been saving all that money up for them… where the hell did he get it from? He probably got some money when his mom had died, Bucky had figured that, but he thought that he would have spent it on food first, seeing how Steve is so fucking hungry all the time. Bucky’s hungry too, but somehow he always ends up eating his food and some of Steve’s. He should feel bad, taking food from the skinny little kid, but Steve had such a sweet way of offering part of what he couldn’t eat without making Bucky guilty that he couldn’t say no. He could never say no to Steve.

\--  
And that’s where they were now, looking over the tiny little one-room with the kitchenette in one corner. There was a common bathroom out in the hall, the ceiling was stained, the walls were cracked, and the only furniture it came with was one crummy bed and a table that was missing a leg, but shit, it was theirs.  
The bed frame is broken and the mattress sags on the end, and there aren’t any sheets to cover it (which doesn’t matter, they have their own blankets) and the pillow smells mouldy, but the real problem is the size. It’s some awkward size halfway between a twin and a full, but certainly only made for one person. There’s no question of who gets to sleep in it; Steve set up his own little makeshift bed on the floor beside the bed.  
It’s hot in the room, but mostly stuffy. Steve opened up the one window that faces the alleyway, and looks out with some amusement to realize that it’s the same alleyway where he met Bucky. He wondered if Bucky ever thought about that day. He knew for sure that he did. The air blew into the room, making it a little less stagnant, but still hot. He went back over to his bed on the floor and laid down on it, facing away from the bed.  
“Good night, Buck,” he called quietly. Bucky didn’t respond. He sat up in bed, and looked over at him, blinking in the darkness. He could just make out Bucky’s outline, but not his expression.  
Bucky was sitting up, angled toward Steve. He paused for a moment, then shrugged, almost as if making up his mind. “It’s kind of cold tonight,” he said casually, like stating a fact, although it clearly wasn’t.  
Steve knew exactly what he meant, though. It was the same exact thing that Bucky would say in the winter, when they were chilly and they shared a bed. Steve wasn’t sure why Bucky would say it in this hot weather at all, but he was kind of glad he did. Steve sprang up from his own bed, trying not to look too enthusiastic but failing, grabbed his pillow and joined Bucky in the small bed. As he climbed in, he easily found his place nestled against Bucky’s soft body, and Bucky put his arms around him, gently spooning. That was the easiest Steve had ever fallen asleep. On his own, it took him nearly a half hour of sitting perfectly still, if he didn’t have an itch or want to change his position. But snuggled against Bucky like that, he dropped into sleep immediately.

\--  
Bucky held Steve, put his arms around him like he could protect him from everything if he was just touching him. It would have been awkward if Steve had asked what he was doing, but he hadn’t. He’d just settled right up against Bucky like he was made to fit there, and his breathing had slowed until Bucky knew he was asleep. Bucky watched him for a while, feeling his shoulders rise and fall as a little tuft of hair on his forehead blew slightly up every time he breathed out, and fell down again.  
They’d spooned lots of times before, but even though Bucky didn’t want to admit, there was something between them now, something that made things different.  
It was Bucky’s belly.  
He’d put on a few pounds since the winter, although God knows how. It was probably a result of the irregular pattern of their meals; a day without any food at all, a day they would stuff themselves, not knowing the next time they could eat well. Bucky’d always had a soft face, pretty in a girlish way but not un-masculine, so most of the weight he’d gained had settled on his stomach and cheeks, just making him slightly softer in already soft areas. He wasn’t chubby, not quite, but he was almost there. He should have been embarrassed, his new gut pressing up against Steve’s hard back, especially with just his cotton shirt on (it really was quite hot, and Steve was wearing nothing but his trunks, and Bucky would have been too, if he wasn’t so self-conscious). He should have worried that Steve might feel his new weight, or if he shifted just right he’d see how Bucky had just the start of rolls on his waist, a little fold where the extra flesh over his ribs met the soft padding around his tummy. But he wasn’t ashamed. It almost felt nice, to be bigger in ways that Steve wasn’t. They were always taking turns taking care of each other, and after Steve had gone and bought the apartment for both of them, it was nice to just lie there and feel kind of sturdy. And Steve didn’t seem to mind, either.

\--  
“Stevie,” calls a soft voice from outside the warm layer of sleep that he’s encased in. He nearly calls Bucky ‘mom’, nearly does, but he catches himself, a log of pain in his throat that’s hard to swallow around. He opens his eyes and just a few tears escape, but it’s easy to brush that off as morning goo. He stirs and turns around, but Bucky isn’t in bed. He’s standing near the side, looking gorgeous, and God help him, plump. He’s wearing just his white trunks and a small cotton shirt, so thin that Steve can see the outline of his paunch and exactly how nice and round he’s getting. Under the blankets, Steve’s morning wood jumps in response to Bucky’s new softness, something that’s been happening more and more recently.  
He scowls a little and sits up, crossing his legs so his annoying erection won’t show. “Morning, Buck,” he croaks in a voice not quite ready to be used yet. He slept so, so well last night. Better than he had in forever. A little uncomfortably warm, but not too much to really sleep well. And honestly, he’d sacrifice being cool in a second if it meant having Bucky pressed up against him like that, Steve able to feel every inch of his midsection, feel him as he expanded with each long, slow breath, the rhythm of breathing making Steve’s dreams erotic and dizzy.

\--  
Bucky nearly cries when he sees Steve sit there, looking thin in a way that was just under the level of healthy. He’s thought on more than one occasion that if only somehow he could give Steve just a little bit of his own weight, that both of them would be healthy. Steve’s got those little rolls that skinny people get, the washboard folding of his skin, which can hardly be called rolls at all. Bucky’s hyper-aware of the rolls that he gets when he sits down, two or three big ones that you can fit in your palm, heft them up and feel the real weight of his gut. He knows that right now his trunks that fit nicely about a month ago are just ever so small, the elastic waistband just strong enough to create the smallest illusion of a muffin top. He’s glad that he’s wearing a shirt, but not so glad that he’s standing in front of the window, weak sunlight shining through the thin cotton and putting him on display for his friend. Just the thought of it makes Bucky self-conscious, especially since Steve’s sitting up on the bed now, eye level with his waist. For some reason, it turns him on a bit, to have himself be so vulnerable in front of Steve, that new addition to himself that he’d been trying to hide for weeks suddenly unable to be hidden anymore, just standing there with his slight belly on display.  
Which reminds him, he’s hungry.  
On cue, his stomach growls, and Steve snaps into action, the sound of it waking him up.  
“I thought that this morning, we could maybe celebrate. There’s a diner on this block, and I put aside some money that’s not for rent.”  
Bucky knows what he’s implying. He means, there’s enough money that they don’t need to use that they can just spend to not worry about being hungry, just enough for one morning to order everything on the menu.  
He nods. “Sounds great.”  
Steve gets out of bed—kind of oddly, Bucky thinks, crossing his legs at a weird angle and walking away on the other side to quickly grab his pants—and starts getting dressed. Bucky throws his own pair of pants on, pulling them up over his thighs and… shit. They won’t close. He tries again, the two sides of the denim parted by the fly and button simply not shutting. He’s glad Steve’s facing the other way, because with every time he tries in vain to shove the button near the hole, he can feel his slight muffin top being hoisted upward. He’s glad there isn’t a mirror so he can’t see how fucking fat he must look.

\--  
Steve was having some trouble with his pants. The jeans seemed to fit differently, big in some places, like they were used to holding someone else’s legs. Once he’d zipped and buttoned them, they still presented something of a problem, the problem being that he could slip them down right over his ass and thighs without unbuttoning them again. He turned around and nearly laughed, put quickly passed it off as a cough.  
“I, uh, think we grabbed each other’s pants, Buck,” he said as gently as he could, in light of the situation. His voice dipped oddly, in a way he didn’t quite get. Puberty had lots of pros and cons, and he didn’t exactly mind his new voice, but sometimes it didn’t cooperate.  
What he had seen when he turned around was a frustrated Bucky with an embarrassed flush on his cheeks sucking in as much as he could and furiously pushing the button toward the hole, creating a vertical crease up his gut. What Steve wanted to do was cross the room and cup one hand over his ass, the other on the swell of his belly and jiggle it ever so softly, kiss Bucky’s full mouth and press his skinny little body against Bucky’s soft one. Bucky had always been stockier than Steve, nothing near overweight now, and the recent weight on Bucky was just too apparent for Steve to not be turned on. It was more than he’d expected, and it certainly looked like more than it had felt last night; instead of a new softness round his waist, it seemed like a whole new distribution of fat on his abdomen and everywhere else too, if he was being honest.  
Bucky was damn heavy.  
And it made Steve go a hard one.  
Bucky scowled, clearly mortified, and Steve wanted to say something to let him know that it was okay, it was nice that he was soft, looking round and well-fed in such miserable times, but he felt like anything he might say would just make the situation worse, especially since he was already having so much trouble taking his fucking eyes off Bucky’s love handles and rolls and soft overhang on the pants that were at least two sizes too small. He shoved them back down over his legs and threw them at Steve, who caught them and tossed Bucky his own jeans. He tried not to watch, he really did, but he just couldn’t draw his eyes away from Bucky’s hands sliding his jeans over his strong calves, thick thighs, padded ass, to where they sat nicely right below his love handles, cushioning every curve and zipping just the tiniest bit snug to pinch Bucky’s softness.  
Steve quickly allowed himself a fantasy, imagined taking Bucky to the diner and watching him stuff himself silly, overfull and happy, helping him waddle back to the apartment and sliding those tight jeans off, tracing every hot line on Bucky’s skin with his tongue before moving lower—  
“Hey, Rogers, you gonna get dressed, or what?” Bucky snaps a little harshly, making Steve tear his eyes from his stomach and blink at him a little. Bucky catches his expression and sighs. “Or just hand me my shirt, please,” he adds, voice a little softer.  
Steve nods and picks up his blue button-down from where it lies on the ground, tossing it at Bucky. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he muttered, quickly exiting the apartment with his own jeans and shirt balled up in one hand, leaving Bucky for just a moment. In the bathroom, he lets his mind linger more, on Bucky’s stomach, soft and squishable, how nicely it’ll look when it’s packed with food, skin pulled taut from the several helpings he’ll probably eat. Steve’s hand snuck down to his erect cock, pulling on it in steady, long strokes. He pictured Bucky pressed up against him in the bed and then pictured him bigger, thirty pounds heavier, soft thighs that Steve would sit between, Bucky on the bed, Steve on the floor, taking his painful jeans off him, too tight by about twenty pounds, belly expanding to fill the area that his unbutton jeans had left and flicking his tongue all over Bucky’s hot flesh, watching Bucky’s strip of flesh underneath his belly button quiver, putting his hands all over Bucky’s round gut and nibbling on the sides, Bucky calling his name and throwing his head back, arching his tummy into Steve’s mouth—  
Steve’s hand on his cock tightened, jerking with fevered motions as he came, stifling his gasps as his seed flew into the toilet. He flushed and shoved his pants on and quickly buttoned his shirt, leaving the bathroom and going back to the apartment. Just as he was about to turn the knob, he had a thought and paused, listening. He heard a gentle rocking sound and quickened breathing, and moved a blue eye to the keyhole of the door to see Bucky jacking off on the bed, pants pulled down just enough so that he could coax his own orgasm.  
Steve spun over to the wall and patiently waited, not knowing what to think of what he had just seen. A moment later, the door opened, and a composed (and dressed) Bucky stood beside him. “Ready?” he asked Steve, who nodded. “Great. Then take me to that diner you mentioned.”

\-- UPDATE 6.15  
They were seated in a booth by a lady old enough to be their grandmother, the typical diner waitress. Steve and Bucky were snickering and smiling like they were sharing a private joke, just happy to be having a real meal in a real restaurant. Steve smiled sweetly at Bucky and told him that he could order anything. When the waitress came, Steve ordered pancakes and sausage, plain and simple.  
When it was Bucky’s turn to order, he took a deep breath. “Belgian waffles with sausage, grits, scrambled eggs, biscuits, French toast with bacon, and a slice of apple pie with ice cream, please.”  
The waitress stared at him in shock for a second, and Steve nearly wanted to say something, but then she went back to the kitchen. Steve looked at Bucky, and a deep blush had settled on his cheeks. Steve wanted to say something, tell Bucky it was okay, they were here for that, he was allowed to indulge, but he didn’t want to focus the conversation on the subject of Bucky’s eating habits.  
It was Bucky who spoke first. “What would you do if the war ended tomorrow?” That was the way they often started games of ‘what ifs’ to pass the time.  
“I’d make sure Jenny was throwing a party, and then I’d get me a celebratory kiss,” Steve answered truthfully. He would get a celebratory kiss. He just didn’t specify that it wouldn’t be Jenny who he would be kissing. “What would you do if you were drafted tomorrow?” he asked for his turn, moving the subject from best case scenario regarding war to worse case.  
Bucky paused for a little, then answered. “I’d go.”  
Steve looked at his lap.  
“It could happen, Stevie. Not one of these days, but when I’m older. Five years or so, I won’t have a choice.”  
“I know.” Steve’s voice was quiet, even to his own ears. He knew that there was no way he could go, with asthma and his weak heart and allergies and five hundred other things. He had always known that someday Bucky would go ahead, strong, beautiful Bucky, and he’d be left behind, alone.  
He was so tired of being weak.  
Bucky quickly broke the tension. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”  
“France. Maybe Paris, or somewhere less crowded.”  
The waitress came with their food, faster than they expected. She set down one plate in front of Steve, three large pancakes the size of his whole plate, and four sausages crammed into the sides, the whole thing covered with syrup. In front of Bucky, she set down three whole plates; one with the waffles and sausage, one with the French toast and bacon, one with the scrambled eggs and biscuits, and the grits in a little dish.  
“I’ll bring your apple pie when you’re done with all that,” the waitress commented, eyeing Bucky nervously, like she was afraid he might pass out right then.  
Steve’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, looking at all the food. “Wow, Bucky,” he said breathlessly. “Do you think you’ll be able to finish it all?”  
Bucky gave him an odd look, like Steve was presenting him with some challenge. “Watch me.”

\--  
Bucky didn’t know what in him makes him want to impress Steve so much, but he didn’t mind, not really. He could kiss him, he really could, thank him for doing so many nice things for him. He was reminded of the kiss yesterday (just yesterday? It seemed so much further) and a blush crept to his cheeks. He dutifully filled each of the squares in the Belgian waffles with syrup and then cut them, watching the way the syrup poured from the squares to pool on the next one below. He put the fork in and put them in his mouth, the first bite always the best. As his lips closed, the syrup crashed into his tongue like a wave, making his mouth water even with the food inside. He munched happily on the sugary waffle, the soggy bread going down nice and easy. He’d eaten at the diner before, he thought, and he remembered how nice their waffles were. Nothing like the sinkers he’d accidentally made for himself sometimes when he was alone. He was always horrible at cooking. No, these waffles tasted delicious and didn’t take up much room, which was good.  
He ate fast. He had to, if he wanted to eat everything before his brain could catch up to how full he was. Soon the first waffle was down and he was already halfway through the second, and he could see Steve stirring in his booth. Bucky snuck his left hand down and tugged on his jeans, just a little, to resituate the way they dug into the soft underside of his belly. Steve didn’t talk, which was good, because Bucky was too busy to respond, but Bucky figured there was another reason that Steve wasn’t saying anything, and the reason had to do with the way Steve’s gaze was plastered right on Bucky’s mouth. It made him a little nervous, like that much attention would make him accidentally spill something, but he quickly ate the sausages and moved on to the next plate. 

\--  
Bucky was done with the waffles already. Christ. Steve had barely had half of his first pancake, and Bucky was already starting in on the French toast. French toast was heavier than waffles, but there were only four slices, so Steve figured that Bucky could down those fairly easily. He already must be close to full; he’d adjusted his pants when he thought that Steve wasn’t looking. He piled away the French toast as Steve finished his first pancake, and quickly finished the bacon, too. Steve could hear the way his breathing had become more careful, more levelled, like his gut was already full and painful. Steve started in on his second pancake, still hungry (and more than a little turned on) while Bucky ploughed forward through the mountain of food before him. 

\--  
Bucky was already full, but not painfully so. The eggs were a perfect mix of cheese and fluffiness, done just exactly the way he liked them. He didn’t just scarf the food down; he enjoyed every delicious bite of bursting flavour. He could tell by the way Steve ate that Steve wasn’t even tasting his food; whether the pancakes were bland or Steve was distracted by the enormous amount of food Bucky was putting away, he couldn’t tell. It had been about fifteen minutes, and the waitress came back to check on them. Her eyes widened when she saw that Bucky had finished two plates already, and when she asked Steve if he was done, he replied no.  
Bucky thought that was a little strange. Steve had only had two of the three pancakes on his plate and he hadn’t touched the third yet, so Bucky figured that he was done. Paying no attention, he scooped his fork down for another bite of scrambled eggs to discover that they were gone. A little disappointed, he picked up a biscuit and dipped it into the grits, enjoying the taste of wheat on wheat. He was overfull now, stomach pressing uncomfortably into his pants even more so than earlier. Hell, it had been a little tight when he was standing up—not to mention when he had sat down and the top nestled right into the roll along his belly button, or when he had already eaten more than anyone did in a whole day, probably. He snuck down his right hand this time, and unbuttoned his jeans. His distended belly pushed into the space, unzipping his fly with the sheer weight of it. He slid his forearm under it, feeling the heaviness of his slight overhang. Steve’s eyes began to drop to Bucky’s lap, so he quickly tuck his shirt down (and the buttons were beginning to strain over the largest part of his middle) over his gut and straightening up a little bit. He would have sucked in, just for modesty, but he was too full and it hurt too damn much. He finished the other biscuit with the grits and pushed that plate aside, groaning.  
Steve looked concerned, and he pushed Bucky’s water closer to him. Bucky nodded and took a long sip, the cold, fresh water making him feel less lethargic. 

\--  
Steve couldn’t believe it. He’d eaten everything, in under a half hour. When he’d unbuttoned his pants and cradled himself, Steve had nearly come right then. He knew he shouldn’t be staring as shamelessly as he was, he should be focusing on something out the window and glancing over when Bucky wasn’t looking, but it seemed that Bucky wasn’t looking anyway, so busy with eating. After he put the glass of water down, now empty, he laid back into the booth diagonally, groaning. Steve could see his right arm on the table, and realized (with a rush of sparks shooting down his chest) that Bucky was massaging himself with his left hand, pressing into the tautness of it. Steve watched the flesh give under Bucky’s nimble fingers, and fantasized about his own bony hands on it. It would be just as tight and full as he imagined. He pictured bringing Bucky back to the apartment, stuffed and in pain. He imagined soothing some of that pain, because what are best friends for? He pictured putting his hands on it, massing it, pressing into those soft sides, bouncing it just ever so slightly, even slapping it a little—  
He realized that Bucky had said something.  
“W-what?” he stuttered, pulled from his erotic daydream. His cock throbbed in his jeans painfully, and he shifted.  
“I said, are you gonna eat that?” Bucky drawled, his eyes dropping from Steve’s to the last pancake on his plate.  
Sweet baby Jesus.  
Wordlessly, Steve pushed the plate toward Bucky.  
The waitress appeared again. “Jesus, kid. You’re gonna explode.”  
For just one second, Bucky’s expression dropped, and Steve wanted to make the waitress take it back, make her apologize for making Bucky feel guilty about indulging.  
“Give him a fucking break,” Steve muttered, quieter than the waitress can hear, but she just sighed and took away the plates (Bucky finished Steve’s pancake, but he’s still working on the huge mouthful of the last bite he had shoved in when she took the plate).  
“I’ll be right back with your pie,” she said, as if waiting for Bucky to contradict her. “That is, if you still want it…” she continued, her implications hanging in the air.  
Bucky chews furiously, his eyes fixed on his lap (or maybe his gut overtaking his lap, Steve thinks).  
“Thank you, yes,” Steve said loudly, nearly shouting. The waitress gave him a “jeez” look and backed off, going back to the kitchen again. “D-don’t pay any attention to her,” Steve said to Bucky in his most soothing voice. “She doesn’t know how bad we’ve had it. You have every right to be here. You have every right to enjoy yourself.”  
Bucky looked Steve in the eyes, finally. Those beautiful, brilliant blue eyes, framed with dark lashes, those perfect eyes like deep pools that Steve could dip into forever. “God, Stevie, you always know just what to say.”  
Steve smiled. The waitress came back with the pie and ice cream (a huge slice, thankfully her rudeness didn’t change that, and the scoop is just as large), this time laying them before Bucky without comment.  
Bucky looked at the pie for a minute, then back up at Steve. “I don’t know if I can…” He contemplated the pie on his plate for a moment longer.  
Suddenly, Steve was filled with the deep desire to convince him to have it. He didn’t want to cause him pain, heavens know, and he knew that his stomach must hurt, he was already so stuffed and uncomfortable, but he wanted him to finish that slice. He would have said, ‘Aw, c’mon, I know you can do it, you’ve still got room in that belly of yours’, but by now he knew just how to make Bucky eat it. It was sort of cruel, but Bucky responded to reverse psychology better than anything else. “Yeah, probably not. You already ate so much…”  
Bucky’s eyes snap up to Steve’s at the first real mention he’s made of the meal all morning. “What?” he said, unsure that he’d heard correctly.  
“I mean, a slice of pie on top of all that would be pushing it, don’t you think?” Steve’s voice sounded foreign in his own ears, teasing, low in a way that his new, deeper voice couldn’t attest for. In some way, Bucky’s expanding waistline symbolized their relationship. There had always been an underlying attraction between them, or at least there was on Steve’s end. The fact that Bucky was getting chubby meant that he didn’t have perfect self-control; that he could give in to pleasure even if he didn’t think it was right. Like being plump when it was in to be strong and muscular, or homosexual when it was wrong to not be straight. But Steve wouldn’t let his mind go there. He wouldn’t get his hopes up.  
Bucky’s cheeks flushed deeper, and Steve wondered if he’d gone too far. Bucky pulled the plate closer to him, and sunk the fork into the slice, getting a nice big chunk on, and then dipping it into the scoop of ice cream for good measure before shoving it in his mouth.

\--  
Even after sitting for a minute or two, the pie was hot, and the ice cream was cold. The contrast was perfect. The crisp cinnamon in the apples; the creamy sugar of the ice cream. Bucky could eat like this forever.  
Yeah, and then you’d be even more huge, his mind retorted, a recent and kind of weird new thing. He hardly needs the prodding eyes of waitresses or the snide comments from best friends to remind him of how much an appetite he has.  
And what the hell was that all about, anyway?  
One minute it’s all “You have every right to indulge” and the next it’s “A slice of pie would be pushing it, don’t you think?” Steve’s been sending mixed signals left and right, Bucky’s used to that. But not in this area.  
For some reason, Steve thinking that he couldn’t—or maybe shouldn’t—eat it just made Bucky want to more. His stomach hurt, and he was way past full. His jeans were pressing into him, even unbuttoned and unzipped, and fuck, his shirt was straining, too. The buttons near the top were cooperative, but the farther down the line you went, the more they pulled. Right over his gut, at the widest part, where it sat right over his jeans, one even came undone. Not popped, just slipped out of its hole by the force of his own gut. Bucky cringed, but kept eating. His stomach kept on saying no, not more, you’ve already had too much, but his tongue relished in the taste and he distracted himself from the pain enough until—  
Until he’d finished it.  
He’d finished it all.  
Everything.  
He really did feel like he could explode.  
And Steve looked like it too, but in a different way.  
The waitress came one last time and took the rest of the dishes, said something to Steve, and he left a tip on the table and went over to pay. Bucky was still sitting in the booth, not stuck, just sort of weighed down by his huge gut sitting on top of him like another person, making it hard to get up. And Christ, did it hurt. He felt stuffed and definitely miserable, but also content in the strangest way. He’d overdone it, but God it felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten enough, not to mention more than enough.  
A few moments later, Steve came back from paying, and offered an arm. Bucky shook his head and slowly pushed away from the booth, standing up slowly and breathing evenly, fixing his pants and his shirt.  
Steve looked concerned, he really, really did, and Bucky figured that that was enough punishment for his weird comment earlier. “Are you okay?” he said, so sincere that Bucky felt it down to the core of his heart.  
And with that, Bucky knew that his dreams of being muscular and thin were out the window. Oh, he could always lose the weight, but it wasn’t that. He liked it too much. All of this. He liked eating too much at every meal. He liked the way that he had tried to hide it at first, all the gathering softness, then couldn’t anymore because he’d gotten too big. He liked how soft and sturdy his centre felt, the way he could latch a hand on to one of his love handles, really scoop up the folds of his flesh, and shake, and his whole gut moved with it. He liked the way it dipped over the waistband of his jeans. And most of all, in a weird fucking way, he liked the way it made Steve all hot and bothered. At first he wasn’t sure if that was it, but after the last few days, it was unmistakable. Steve was turned on by Bucky being… well, fat. There was no other word for it. Bucky wasn’t quite sure what it meant, just like he wasn’t sure what that kiss in the parking lot meant (although, he should have, he should have known it was a come-on, but he was never quite sure with Steve, wasn’t sure what he wanted or if it meant anything romantic, and if it had or if Steve had pressed the issue afterward, he honest to God wouldn’t have known what to do with it. He barely knew how to handle dames for more than a dance and a kiss, forget Steve). He didn’t know how it would change their friendship. He just knew that he liked being big… and Steve liked it too.  
Bucky took a deep breath, told himself it was just a small walk back to the apartment, just past that little alley where they met, and up a flight of stairs, and that’s it. He nodded.  
Steve offered him his arm again, and Bucky shook his head again. They left the diner and Steve set a mercifully slow pace, and Bucky’s breathing the pleasant April air and feeling much better. He won’t outdo it again like this for a while, anyway. 

\--  
As they got close to the alley, Bucky was panting a little, and he waved at Steve and stopped for a breather. Steve really was concerned; he shouldn’t have pushed him so far. The people passing by didn’t pay much attention—Bucky didn’t look unusual, and his stomach wasn’t all that obvious to those who were paying attention. Steve was, and it was his own secret little pleasure.  
But someone else was, too.  
Some boys emerged from the alleyway. Not the punks Steve was used to being picked on by. Bigger ones. Tough, tall, muscular boys in their late teens. One grabbed Bucky by the hair and pressed a dagger up to his throat. “Not a sound, or the porker gets it,” he hissed at Steve. Steve slowly nodded and moved farther into the dark alley, away from the people.  
“Wallet, now,” the other boy hissed. Steve was glad—so fucking glad—that he’d left the apartment money in the apartment, but also not very glad that he’d spent the last of it on the waitress’ tip.  
“I don’t have any,” Steve said, voice low.  
His response was a punch in the gut.  
Steve doubled over, sputtering and choking for air. He’d be fine in a minute, he just had the air knocked out of him.  
“C’mon, Stevie—“ Bucky started, but was cut off by a gasp when the kid who had him pressed in the knife just a tad tighter. “Don’t be a fucking hero, just give him the money.”  
Steve was still leaning over, thinking and catching his breath. “I said,” he slowly started, and then spun as quickly as he could, trying to catch the other boy by surprise with a left hook. “I don’t have any money!”  
The kid—big, but swift—dodged the punch easily, and moved a little closer to Steve, eyes on fire with anger.  
“Fuck,” Bucky swore, and Steve knew he was in for it.  
He tried; he really did. He knew how to block punches and where to hit. Bucky’s countless lessons after many fights before had taught him that, but they were just too strong. It was like trying to hold back rocks with paper. And yeah, paper beats rock in Rock, Paper, Scissors, but not if the rock has knives.  
The big cut punched Steve in the face and kneed him in the gut, kicked him on the ground and flicked out his switchblade. Bucky tried to call out to warn him, but the kid who had him punched him right in his big, full stomach. Steve had already seen the glint of metal in the few rays of sunlight, but what could he do, really? He kicked out his foot, trying to trip the boy, but it didn’t work. He punched his face, one side stinging with the impact, the other side slamming into the hard concrete below. One more punch, and his lights were out.

\-- UPDATE 6.17  
Bucky had started to cry. The pain in his stomach was sharp, and he was having trouble not throwing up, but if he was being honest, he was more worried for Stevie. The sharp little knife at his throat had just begun to draw blood, a thin little line, and it snapped Bucky into action.  
Steve—little, skinny Steve, who he’d sworn to himself he’d always protect—lying unconscious and bloody on the street snapped him in action.  
He pulled free one arm from where the kid held it behind his back and punched him in the face, then used one of his own personal favourite moves and grabbed him by the back and flipped him toward his friend, the guy who was beating up Steve.  
Bucky was full and tight and painful, but Steve.  
He grabbed the knife from the ground and pointed it at them, hands shaking. “Run. And leave us the fuck alone,” he snarled. The one who’d been beating up Steve stepped forward, about to try and take the knife, but Bucky shifted his weight to his right leg, spun, and kicked him right in his fucking teeth with his steel-tipped boot. The boys scrambled up from where they lay in a bloody heap on the ground and ran.  
Bucky picked up Steve with his right arm and held him over his shoulder, carefully—Christ, he weighed practically nothing—and pulled the fire escape stairs down with the other, not wanting to go back up to their apartment the public way. He thanked God that they only lived on the second floor and jimmied open the window, sliding Stevie onto the floor before climbing in the window himself (and being partially glad that Steve was unconscious and couldn’t see that Bucky had to suck in his gut—his painful, full gut—to fit), and quickly found a first aid kit and doctored up Steve’s wounds.

\--  
Steve woke up on his bed, back in their apartment. His left eye hurt, but it’s nothing compared to his right one, which he couldn’t even see out of. His mouth tasted like blood and he was pretty sure his nose was broken, but he was alive.  
Bucky.  
He sat bolt upright, and immediately realized it was a mistake, blood rushing from his head and spots swimming before his eyes. He whimpered weakly and fell involuntarily back to the pillow, the thump giving him a little headache.   
Bucky’s there, filling his vision, concerned (and a little agitated and watery?) blue eyes looking down at him. “Shit, Steve, don’t try to get up… are you okay? Is there anything that you need?”  
Steve tried to swallow, his thick dry tongue filling up too much room in his mouth. He tried to speak and nothing came out, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “A-are you okay?”  
Bucky smirked, a chuckle sneaking from his mouth. “Shit. Yeah, you fucking idiot.” A wave of relief washed over Steve. Bucky was okay. There was a small line of blood on Bucky’s neck, but it had been washed, and it was healing quickly, already scabbing over. “Do you need anything?” Bucky asked.  
“No,” Steve croaked, and felt like he was slipping back into unconsciousness. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around what he was saying, and tried to close his mouth, in case something stupid came out. His lips had other ideas. “Just you.”  
Bucky smiled again, a definite tear leaking from one eye. He sniffled and pushed it away. “You got me, Rogers,” he said softly, laying down next to Steve and planting a soft kiss on his cheek.  
Steve slipped into euphoria. He meant to return the kiss, he really did. But soon a soft blackness filled his vision, and he was out again.

\--  
He woke up more slowly this time, instead of all at once, not like being pulled from an area where he could escape from pain. Perhaps it was because he didn’t need to worry about where Bucky was. He didn’t need to worry about him because he could feel him right there. Bucky’s soft little belly against Steve’s back and his arm around Steve’s chest and his breath tickling Steve’s neck. Steve looked around in the darkness and realized it was night time, or very early morning. He’d been sleeping since a little before noon maybe, and now he couldn’t sleep anymore. He stretched a little to realize that he was hungry, too. He carefully took Bucky’s arm from around him and snuck out of bed, watching Bucky fan out and pat the space where Steve had been, brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. He crept to the kitchenette and opened one of the cabinets to see what was inside. The fridge was broken, so it served as a cupboard for warm food only, and he managed to find the necessary ingredients to make a small peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When he turned back to the bed to see if Bucky was still asleep, he was presented with the outline of Bucky sitting up in bed, looking right at him.   
“Sorry,” Steve whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” Bucky grunted in response. “You… uh… want a sandwich?”   
“Steve, it’s 2 a.m.”  
Steve was sure that Bucky did want a sandwich, even with all the food he’d packed in earlier, that he definitely wanted more. “Are you sure—“  
“Yes, I’m sure.” His tone was a little harsh, but it was what Steve needed to hear to believe him. Bucky spun over in bed, and went back to sleep. Steve finished his sandwich and joined him in the bed, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling until dawn came.

\--  
Things change. Bucky’s new plumpness lasted for about two months more, then right in the middle of August, when it would have been unbearable, one of the other effects of puberty hit, and Bucky had a growth spurt. His stomach and baby face all but disappeared (Bucky would always have a bit of a round face with nice cheeks) and fuelled the change for him to really come into manhood. Steve got a job as a paperboy and Bucky was hired at a masonry factory (real manual labour work, the stuff that made him come home all sweaty and covered in stone dust and sporting strong new muscles in every place where there’d been softness before), and they eventually moved out of their crummy apartment and into a different one, one with two beds and heat in the winter. It was getting harder and harder for Steve to find excuses to sneak into bed with Bucky, and Bucky seemed more and more adverse to the idea. Steve never, ever wanted to push the issue and ruined their friendship, and it stayed just that. For a little while it was awkward, Steve still wanting that strange attraction and eroticism their old relationship had held, but soon they settled back into being pals. Bucky and Jenny started dating, and he started taking her home some nights, and Steve asked less questions. They were still close, but the relationship had changed.   
And Steve? Steve would never admit it, but he wished that Bucky was still soft in the middle, just as much as before, and more now that he’d gotten bigger. He still had wet dreams about him, still masturbated while thinking about him. Steve never forgot the kiss in the parking lot, or the one Bucky’d given him right before he passed out. He was pretty sure that Bucky hadn’t forgotten either, but he certainly acted like he had. Steve loved Bucky like he always had: from an agonizingly close distance, with plenty of walls to accentuate just where the boundaries lie.   
Steve loved Bucky right to the day when Bucky was drafted, and taken from him.


	2. 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot rears its ugly head. No chubby!Bucky in this chapter, but plenty of sexual tension between him and Steve.

Steve had radioed for reinforcements exactly seventeen minutes ago. Headquarters had sent him and six other men on a small mission, more of scouts than anything else, just to scope out the area beyond the ridge. Steve had thought that it was a bad idea; he was unfamiliar with African territory and his bright costume stuck out like a sore thumb. When his costume was designed (after he’d gotten out of that show business shit), he suggested something a little less obnoxious (nothing says “I’m America! Please kill me” like practically wearing a flag does), but his commanding officer had insisted that it was patriotic, and would inspire the men. Steve was never one to disagree or disobey a direct order, and even when he’d snuck through the jungle in the middle of the night like a target.   
Everything had gone wrong when “inspiring the men” turned into “ambush”. Nazi forces poured out of the trees, far more than the group of seven men (even six men and a supersoldier) could handle. The officer at headquarters had replied that help would take a while to get there. It had taken Steve and the other men an hour to get where they were now, from the drop off. Steve heard a scream to his left and saw Carl being shot in the face. That was two men already that this mission had cost them… and who knew how many more before help would arrive?  
Steve picked off as many as he could before they reached the little circle of Americans, but it was dark and the Nazis had the advantage, and he was still unused to the strange metal shield (vibranium, was it?) that Stark had designed for him. Sure, it was aerodynamic and always found its way back into Steve’s hands if he threw it just right, but it was heavy and he wasn’t sure how much they could take… how much more he could take.   
A Nazi had been sneaking up on Steve while his mind was consumed in thought, and when one of the men alerted him, he spun and met the Nazi’s fist right in his face. He staggered back for a second, regaining his balance on the uneven (and wet) ground.   
“Had enough, Captain America?” the Nazi spat in his German accent.   
“You kiddin’? I could do this all day,” Steve snarled, plunging his shield into the Nazi’s face and breaking his nose.  
“CAP!” screamed one of the other officers, alerting him that he wasn’t quite paying as much attention as he should have, and Steve spun. In the slow-motion way things had of going right before disaster struck, Steve had just enough time to realize that the Nazi pointing the gun that had just been fired at him wouldn’t miss, and he would die, here, in Africa.

\--  
Bucky hated planes. Absolutely hated them. Nervously, he eyed the window and double-checked the straps on his parachute again, waiting for the go ahead. It wasn’t the height he minded; just the idea of being that high in something so rickety that the engines clicked and sputtered every time they banked too sharply. Headquarters had the worst planes, probably leftovers from the first World War, which was probably why Team #1 had been dropped off outside the jungle, then made their way through it. However, the Captain had radioed for urgent help, and the quickest way of it getting there was for him to be dropped off directly over the point of ambush.   
“Okay, go!” shouted the officer over the wind (and the ridiculously unsafe engines).   
Bucky pulled the lever on the hatch and jumped out of the plane. The ground raced toward him, and he counted as instructed, gritting his teeth and pulling the string.   
The parachute exited his backpack flawlessly, slowly setting him on one of the many-boughed branches of the wide African trees. He slipped out of his harness and crept to the ground, instantly identifying the conflict and his next course of action.   
He jumped out of the tree and landed on the shoulders of a Nazi, skewing his aim. The gun fired and the bullet flew through the air high above the target (which, Bucky could see now, was Captain America himself). He twisted on the Nazi’s shoulders and broke the man’s neck, jumping off him as he fell. “What have we got?” he shouted.   
“Twenty incoming from the south, and thirteen in the trees,” Captain America replied with an oddly familiar voice. Bucky nodded, his mind set on what was before him. “You’re it? Where’s everyone else?” the Captain asked, throwing his shield with perfect grace and taking out a Nazi crouched on a tree branch.  
“What do you mean?” replied Bucky, pulling two rifles from his back and firing at a Nazi running up with a grenade. The Nazi threw the grenade up with the impact of Bucky’s shots, and it exploded in air, compromising the strength of one of the humongous African trees. It slowly began to fall, and at the Captain’s shout, his men ran, and the tree crushed a group of Nazis.   
Captain America smiled. “Never mind.”  
Once they’d taken out the remaining Nazis and things had a chance to calm down, Bucky was able to slow down and think for a minute. He took in Captain America, all six-feet-two-inches of him, lean and powerful muscle below that ridiculous bright (and gloriously tight) costume. When headquarters had instructed him that he was being sent to Africa on a secret mission to assassinate Nazi official Baron Strucker, Bucky had been excited. They were finally moving him to stuff that wasn’t boring. Then they had told him that he was going to be taking orders from “Captain America”, and he was not to tell him about his secret mission, Bucky was… less excited? More excited? His emotions had been conflicted. He didn’t like taking orders from some patriotic punk. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure about lying to a commanding officer. Then his briefing officer had shown him a picture of Captain America in action, and Bucky felt just fine with it. He’d been a little nervous to meet him, to be honest, in that way he was always nervous around attractive males. Attractive females were a different story; he could pick out one with his eyes from across the room, some pretty, young thing, smile at her with that playful smirk that made them feel at ease, know exactly how to get them to blush and laugh, and it’d usually end with pressing them up against some wall and fingering their clit while they made out, slow and hot, and then admit that he was being deployed and never see them again.   
But men…   
Bucky’d experimented with both sexes a while ago, had enough drunken (and sober) moments to realize that he was what some people called “ambisexual”. He never acted on it, especially not since he was in the army, but damn. Attractive males took his breath away, made him stutter, made him blush, made him look like an idiot.   
And Captain America (not that he could see all of his face under the cowl) was a very attractive male.  
The picture he’d been shown had done him no justice. He couldn’t see the brilliant blue of his eyes in that scrap of paper, or the sincere emotion they held. He couldn’t trace his eyes over every toned inch of his body as it was in motion, or make direct eye contact and have to catch his breath while Captain America stuck his hand out.  
“Thanks for that back there,” he said while Bucky shook his hand. “I’m… well. Captain America.”  
Bucky smiled back, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hasn’t slept in days, shaved in more, or showered in weeks. He knew his eyes were tired and bloodshot, his beard ragged and face muddy. “Jim. So… what now, sir? Do we continue on, or go back to headquarters?”  
The Captain looked up into the sky. “We make camp for the night.”  
Bucky nodded, relieved to have a break. He helped everyone else set up their tents first, then volunteered to take second watch. He wanted some time to get cleaned up. Obviously a shower was out of the question, but he could at least change his clothes, and try to shave.   
He poked his head into the tent Cap helped him set up. “Excuse me, sir? Do you have a—“ But instead of the Captain, one of the other men—Daniel—turned to face him.   
“Hell, Jim, you don’t have to call me sir,” Dan said, laughing a little.  
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Thought you were the Captain.”  
Dan shook his head. “He’ll help set up the tents, but he always sleeps in his own.” Bucky nodded. He was used to high ranking officials wanting their own special privileges, but Cap didn’t strike him as that kind of a guy. He seemed to be the one that did just as much work, if not more, than his team, making sure that his leadership meant that everyone was safe and got out alive. There must be some other reason he’d want a whole tent to himself, then. Bucky made a mental note to check it out later. “So, what’d you want?”  
Bucky’s mind snapped off daydream about Cap sleeping shirtless, and he somehow made his mouth work. “Mirror?”

\--  
Goddamn. Steve had radioed for reinforcements, and was almost disappointed when only one man showed up, but from the moment he had, everything had turned around. He was great with combat, better at firearms, and hell, beautiful. Steve could tell even under his tired eyes and greasy hair that he was extremely handsome. So what, headquarters had sent a beautiful one-man army?  
“Hey, Cap!” called a voice from outside his tent. “Want some dinner?” Steve shoved his cowl back on and pulled the flap aside to see Jim standing there, clean-shaven, peering just a bit too noticeably into his tent. “Jack made rice and beans, I think.”   
Steve nodded. “I’ll be there in a sec.” He closed the tent flap again and breathed heavily. Jim was even more gorgeous without the beard. He was nearly perfect to some strange ideal that Steve had had in his head of what kind of person he’d like in his life, some notion of a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed guy his own age with a confident smile and a cleft in his chin. Steve wasn’t quite sure where the idea had come from. He was sure—pretty sure—that the accepted idea of what men should look like was exactly how he looked, actually. Steve’s father had died when he was young, so Steve had always been missing a certain male role model element in his life, but the Catholicism he’d grown up with until his mother had died had certainly instilled a sense of responsibility within him.  
Shit, his mother.  
He hadn’t thought about her in years. When Steve had come out of that little pod about two feet and a hundred pounds heavier, it was like he’d become a different person. He still had the same personality, but he’d pushed away most of his memories to focus on being Captain America. He hadn’t been Steven Rogers in so long.   
And he had never really felt like Steve without… well.  
Without his best friend.  
Steve gasped, sinking to the ground. He hadn’t thought about him in years either. Tears pricked his eyes. He’d somehow believed that if he enlisted in the army, he’d magically find Bucky again. That’s why he’d wanted to go to war so bad. Bucky’d been drafted away from him when they were eighteen, and all the Uncle Sam propaganda in the world wouldn’t have made Steve want to join more than losing that so very crucial part of himself had. He’d tried desperately to fake medical records, to change his name, to do anything to get in, so desperately that some doctor doing weird government experiments had been intrigued.   
He grabbed a white cotton shirt (he was sure he must have looked strange, answering Jim wearing only his cowl and boxers, but he had an over reactive sense of preserving his secret identity, paired with the fact that if the men knew him as a man, he’d just be a captain, but as a symbol, he was Captain America.) and shoved it on, leaving the tent and joining the men around the fire. He stood next to Jim, and he handed Steve a plate.   
“Thanks,” Steve muttered, although he wasn’t that hungry. He looked down at Jim’s hands to see him holding a food-stained (but empty) plate. Steve had only taken a minute or two to come out of the tent after Jim got him, so he must have eaten pretty fast. Steve had had a decent sized breakfast (plus he could probably go days without eating, if he needed to, the perfect soldier in every aspect), and Jim still looked hungry. And what was Steve there for, if not to make sure that his team was well taken care of? “Want mine?” he said, not waiting for an answer, but putting his plate in Jim’s hands.   
Jim looked into his eyes for a minute, as if calculating Steve’s intentions, and then shrugged. “Thanks.” He began shoving beans into his mouth with a metal fork. The way he ate tugged at Steve’s memory, a whisper of something he’d forgotten poking at him from the inside. He shook it off. While Jim was distracted eating, Steve let himself really look at him.  
He seemed so familiar in a way that Steve didn’t really understand.  
Steve’s eyes traced from Jim’s heavy, mud-covered boots, to his powerful thighs, the muscular shape of them just barely visible under his rough sweatpants, to the tank top he’d thrown on, displaying his broad chest and flat stomach, muscular arms with a sheen of sweat on them, to his strong jawline, to his blue eyes looking right into his own…  
Shit. Steve snaps his eyes away, down to Jim’s left forearm, where a long scar runs from his elbow halfway to his wrist. 

And he’s suddenly transported.  
“Shit, Buck, run!” Sixteen-year old Steve calls in his memory. They’d been sleeping in a warehouse after being out too late to go back home, and when they’d opened their eyes, they knew that they were in a drug warehouse. Opium shipments, imported from somewhere. The owners had just returned for the morning, and they weren’t happy to see two witnesses.   
Being on the second floor, Bucky and Steve went for their usual escape route, but none of the windows would open, hinges painted shut. Steve had moved to break the glass with his elbow, pulling back his arm, but Bucky had put his hand on his, and lowered it. “No, Steve, I got it,” he’d said, voice quiet. Steve would have protested, but the look in Bucky’s eyes was so warm. He needed to protect Steve like that.   
Steve had nodded and backed up. Bucky went at the window with his left arm, glass shattering, shards both large and small piercing his arm. They’d quickly gone out of the window and ran the whole way home, where Steve carefully pulled every piece of glass out of Bucky’s arm and bandaged it. Every cut had healed nicely, the and the injury had been nearly invisible a month later, except for one, long, jagged mark that Bucky’d sustained on his lower forearm, a scar that would never go away. Bucky didn’t mind though. He’d just shrugged and said, “battle scars,” pleasantly.

Steve stared at the scar on his arm, the soft noises of the jungle accompanying the thoughts rattling in his head.   
There was no way…  
But there it was, the proof right in front of him.  
Jim was Bucky.  
Suddenly it made sense. Jim, short for James. Bucky nearly never went by his first name, but Steve supposed he could, now that he was a full grown man.  
Damn, was he ever.  
A sense of pride came across Steve. Bucky, his Bucky. He’d gone to war, and five years had done him well. He still looked the same… long lashes over blue eyes, gentle dark hair, smile like it was his way of breathing… so agonizingly familiar that Steve wondered how he didn’t know it was him the minute he’d saved Steve’s life. Yet he was changed, too. Less joking, although Steve was sure that if he could get him away from the setting of war, to a club with nice music and dancing that all his wonderful humour would come back.  
But most importantly, he was there.  
Steve hadn’t spoken to him in five years, and hadn’t thought about him much during those years, if he was being honest. Maybe it was because in Steve’s new life as Captain America, he didn’t need Bucky to take care of him, fight for him, help him breathe when he was having an asthma attack, comfort him when he was afraid. Or maybe it was that the whole while, Steve had secretly been afraid that Bucky would be killed.  
But here he was, a fucking high-level assassin, finishing Steve’s dinner, and glancing at Steve oddly. Steve knew he was staring, but he couldn’t quite get himself to stop, a guilty, but pleased and knowing, smile coming across his face.   
He found that he hadn’t left his heart in America as he’d previously thought; not quite. He’d just left it with its owner, and here they’d found each other again, in Africa, like Bucky’d followed him through eleven countries and five years just to give it back.

\--  
Bucky had been right about what kind of commanding officer the Captain was. He’d never, ever met a commanding officer who’d offered him his meal. Bucky was trying not to be a pig. Before his mid-teens, he’d been the fat kid, and that kind of haunted him sometimes. Even when he was healthy, muscular, toned, he still knew that he had more of an appetite than those around him; needed food more frequently, needed more of it. War hadn’t quite delivered on those needs, and often he was running on empty, but still managing without all the necessary energy. One small ration hadn’t been enough, but he was not about not about to get seconds, not when there’s other people there. He might be hungry, but he’s not inconsiderate. So it was sort of embarrassing when absolutely perfect Captain America (who’d probably never felt insecure a day in his life) had noticed his hunger, just how quickly he’d shovelled down the beans, trying not to stare at other people’s food. But then he’d offered him his own, and Bucky’d wanted to say no, surely Cap must be hungry, but there was something in Cap’s eyes that made him feel like it was okay, and even that he might be a little hurt if he’d declined.  
Bucky slept very well, for the first time in weeks (first time for sleeping in weeks, first time sleeping well in years). He wasn’t full, not quite, but it was better. Cap took the first watch, but Bucky wasn’t woken until morning. He was afraid for a minute that he’d gotten something wrong, because he was supposed to be out there, and he wasn’t. He was in his shared tent sleeping dinner off, like he was at a fucking resort and not war.  
Concerned (and confused) he got out of his bed on the floor, not bothering to put a shirt on, and walked right into Captain America’s tent to be presented with…  
Captain America’s ass.   
Cap was facing away from the flap, pulling his underwear up. Bucky didn’t see anything more than his backside, but that was enough to send his dick crazy, hard, bulging muscles all on show for him. He must have made some sort of nose, because Cap tripped forward, cast a glance over his shoulder, managed to pull on his underwear despite tripping on one leg hole, and fell to the ground, putting his left hand up over his field of vision, trying to cover up his face while he scrambled to his feet. Bucky’s cheeks burned bright red, and Captain America’s matched, standing there in his knickers, facing Bucky, who was standing in nothing but his pants.  
“Bucky, fuck,” Captain America swore, still trying to cover his face.  
Bucky turned around, blushing even harder. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t—“ suddenly he paused, the sound of something far away lingering in the air. Bucky. Cap had called him Bucky.   
He slowly turned back around, facing Captain America, strong hands with long fingers still covering his face. “Why did you call me that?” he said quietly.  
Cap spun, facing away from Bucky, focusing on the pile of clothes before him on the floor. “I need to get dressed.”  
Bucky took a deep breath, stepping forward just a few paces. “No one’s called me that since 1938,” he said, a little louder. “Why did you call me that?” he repeated.  
Captain America spun around, faced Bucky angrily, blue eyes looking into each other, at perfect eye level with one another. 

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” Bucky had said, teasing Steve.  
“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you,” Steve responded, teasing right back.  
“You’re a punk.” Bucky felt sadder than he could explain, treacherous tears threatening to spill.  
“Jerk.” Bucky stepped forward and embraced Steve, one last time. “Be careful. Don’t win the war till I get there!”  
Bucky stood up straight, saluted, turned, and walked away.

Bucky’s eyes slowly slid from Captain America’s down to the floor, then back up again. Quietly—hesitantly—he whispered, “Steve?”

\--  
Steve was sixteen again, being held by Bucky, feeling his warm arms encase him, just right where he belonged, that space that he knew so well he could feel it even when he wasn’t there. The last time they’d done this, Steve’s head had bumped into Bucky’s chin, and his skinny little arms had gone around his waist. Now his head rested comfortably right next to Bucky’s, his soft cheeks brushing up against Steve’s angular jaw, their arms wrapped around each other at shoulder height, completely entangled (and shirtless, Steve reminded himself).  
On his cheek, he felt something wet, and he thought tears must be spilling from Bucky’s cheeks, but pulling away, he realized that it was his eyes that were crying. It was mostly platonic—two friends being reunited after not speaking for so long, not hearing news of any kind—but there was that underlying attraction, as always, that made Steve want to embrace him a few moments longer than he should, made him want tilt Bucky’s head just the slightest bit upward to meet his own mouth, kiss Bucky’s soft lips… so soft and plush, if memory served correctly, and Steve knew it did. Every intimate moment they’d ever shared together in that one month or so before Bucky’d cut it off came rushing back like a day hadn’t passed.  
Bucky still held eye contact, his own eyes getting a little wet, but no tears spilled over. He moved one hand up to Steve’s face, traced his ear delicately. “How…” he murmured, with a bewildered expression.  
Steve smirked slightly. Bucky seemed fascinated with Steve’s new body, which he could understand. He felt like he was being drunken up by Bucky’s eyes, shameless gaze pressing at every contour on his body. “After you left, I met this guy, Doctor Erskine, and he decided that I would be a good applicant for this thing called Project: Rebirth. I got injected with the Supersoldier Serum, and, well.” He gestured down to himself.  
Bucky gaped a little. “You mean, you grew overnight?”  
Steve chuckled. “No, within seconds. I went inside this pod and got stuck with needles, and when I came out, I looked like this.”  
Bucky whistled. “And no side effects?” he seemed oddly eager to learn more on the subject, and Steve shifted nervously. He didn’t like talking about himself so much, he was modest, but it was in front of Bucky, too. There was a certain aspect about it that made him squirm, too, to be viewed as such a different person just because he was beautiful now. It showed some shallowness on Bucky’s part, he supposed, that he would suddenly be so affectionate. Or was he reading into it too much? If they’d met again after five years, they’d embrace and cry a little anyway, and go back to being friends. Was Bucky attracted to him now? Had he been attracted to him then?  
Almost certainly not. “Well, no negative ones, but all my health problems went away, and I can lift a lot of weight, and run really fast, and um.” He shrugged. “Do whatever’s necessary in battle.”  
Bucky swallowed, a bit too hard for it to just be saliva gathering in his mouth. “And you’re Captain fucking America.”  
Steve nodded, feeling a little angry, just daring Bucky to like him more now. It made him feel cheap, like he’d gone and done it to seek attention from some teenage crush, instead of wanting to stand up for the little guys. But that’s really what this was about, wasn’t it? He’d wanted to be in the war so badly so that he could see Bucky again, and on one hand that’s sweet, but on the other it was selfish. “Yep.”  
Bucky’s mouth was suddenly on Steve’s, and—yes, it was every bit as soft as he’d remembered. Bucky sucked gently on his lower lip, one hand in Steve’s short blond hair, the other shamelessly groping his ass. Steve wanted to push him away, to say that he wouldn’t be one of those people that Bucky felt up because they were beautiful and then left, to shout that he’d wanted Bucky when most people would have considered him unattractive, and Steve had been a little short and underweight, not that bad looking… but he couldn’t. The pressure of Bucky’s tongue flicking against his teeth undid him completely, all of his false bravado falling away until he felt short and underweight again, all his feelings and emotions out for everyone to see, so vulnerable and small, just daring someone to taunt him to see how much fire really was inside. 

\--  
Bucky would have kissed Steve whether he was a Beef God now or not. He’d spent too many years pushing away his feelings about the scrappy little kid to hold himself back again. Sure, Steve was so, so hot, but Bucky’d always found him hot. Even when he was tiny. Even when he couldn’t breathe sometimes, or when he had black eyes and scraped knees, or when he cried in his sleep, or fainted sometimes. Always, always found him beautiful. Steve was strong in a way that Bucky could never be. He’d always been, and he hasn’t changed at all, the same beautiful heart, just in a bigger body.  
And that’s what Bucky kisses. The little kid from Brooklyn who never backed down from a fight. And he could feel him kissing back too, little Stevie, like he was trapped inside there. Oh, he could get used to this easily. Nothing had changed. The only difference was…  
Now Steve had an outside to match his inside.  
Strong, and beautiful. Every inch.  
Bucky knew he pressed it a bit too far, but it would be kinda hot, to watch Steve pick up a car, or punch his way through a wall. Bucky had always believed that he’d had it in him, the little supersoldier that Steve had kept tucked inside. And now he didn’t have to worry so fucking much. He still would, he knew, but Steve could hold his own now. Hell, Steve could probably fight Bucky’s fights for him now, not that Bucky couldn’t fight his own.  
They were evenly matched.  
Bucky kind of minded that. He didn’t want to be exactly the same, some cardboard cut-out of the perfect male, but he loved Steve’s new body, really did. He’d never look frail now.  
But there was some fragility in him, anyway. Some vulnerability tucked behind his eyes as he blushed and blinked slowly, hands curling around Bucky’s neck. Some delicious delicate part of him that he’d bared for Bucky right there, in that kiss, in that little tent.  
Something Bucky thought earlier flicked back to him now. He’d thought earlier that Captain America had never felt insecure a day in his life.   
If he’d only, only known that that was not the case at all.  
Steve smiled, kissing him again, close-lipped this time, and happy all over (and that was so just like Stevie). “Guess you gotta look up to me now, huh?”  
Bucky punched him lightly on the shoulder and laughed a little. “I always looked up to you, kid.”  
Their tender moment was interrupted by gunfire, and Bucky grabbed the closest gun and ran outside. The gunfire came from the men on the ground, but they’re firing up, into the sky. Bucky shielded his eyes and tried to look up, but the sun was just too bright. Then, the objects dropped lower with a sick whirring in their engines, and Bucky knows exactly what they are. Planes.  
Nazi planes.  
On one side of the army green planes are the swastikas. But on the other side? A hideous red mark, a symbol of the organization that Bucky’s been put in charge of tracking down. A skull with what looks like tentacles coming out of it, an ugly blood red. He knew that this wasn’t just another ambush or happening to run into their territory, but Strucker’s men. They knew that Bucky was trying to find their base, and now they’ve taken offensive action.   
Bucky had felt bad enough about being deceitful about his order to any commanding officer, but to Stevie? Shit. He couldn’t continue to lead them closer to the base without letting them know what they’re getting into. This was something bigger than Nazis. More violent. More malevolent, if it’s possible. There’s Nazis. And then there are terrorist, hate-filled, world-domination-bent, billionaire-funded, subversive Nazis. He couldn’t take them with him. And he couldn’t tell them.  
He wished he could just tell Steve, ask him to come with him. He knew that he’d say yes in a heartbeat. Hell, he could probably use Captain America’s help.   
Except. He’d been ordered to do this alone, and secretively, and for good reason. And he couldn’t just have Steve come with him and leave all his men behind. A good captain wouldn’t do that. And Bucky would never make Steve choose between him and his duty.  
“I’m sorry, Stevie,” he whispered, knowing Steve couldn’t hear him. He stopped by his tent just long enough to get the rest of his things and came back out again, running after the planes that will doubtless lead him to Strucker.

\--  
Steve came out of his tent a heartbeat after Bucky did, fully dressed in his Captain America garb, but Bucky was already gone. His slight confusion quickly turned to panic, and he asked Dan and Jack about the gunshots, where Bucky (“Jim,” he reminded himself) had gone, if he’d been injured. No one had seen Bucky at all. It was like he’d just disappeared.  
Again.  
But then, in the deep, rich jungle mud, Steve saw a single boot print, squashed at an awkward angle, like the foot in that boot had been running. And Steve would recognize the tread of Bucky’s old boots anywhere.  
He went closer to it, and thank god, there’s another. Steve wasn’t much of a tracker, but it seemed clear that Bucky was running in the direction of the planes (Steve could see the tracks that the plane had left, going East). So, basically without thinking, Steve shouted, “Jack! You’re in charge until I get back! Continue with the mission!” (Instantly replied with an “AYE SIR!”) and took off after the tracks.

 

Steve could run fast, very fast, but apparently so could Bucky. Steve had been running for about fifteen minutes through the jungle (he was still on track, he could see footprints or other signs that Bucky had been through this way occasionally, and the thin clouds in the sky above him would be enough to go by even without Bucky’s trail), but he still hadn’t caught up to Bucky yet.  
Then, the jungle ended, abruptly, thick roots and mud and plants stopped dead like a straight line against the desert. Fortunately, the sand only made it easier to see Bucky’s tracks.   
Steve crossed over the first dune, and there he was, making his way up the second, still running. Steve sprinted a little and caught up to him. “Hey,” he panted. “Didn’t think I was going to let you run off without me, didja?” Steve Rogers is quite determined to never let Bucky out of his sight for another second, as a matter of fact.  
Bucky looked angrily over at him, but under the anger was a layer of gratitude, almost relief. “Steve! You can’t come with me. This is a secret mission—and you have to lead your team.”  
Steve put on his ‘commanding officer’ voice. “Listen here, soldier. I am your ranking official. If I say I’m going with you, I’m going with you.”  
Bucky panted. “Yes, sir.”  
“So, what’s the plan here?” Steve was a little aware of the fact that he could keep up running for a while more, but Bucky, no matter how strong, had only the amount of stamina that you could expect.  
“I’ve been ordered to kill Baron von Strucker, the leader of a terrorist organization called Hydra,” Bucky answered honestly (and a little out of breath, Steve thought).  
“And the base is where?”  
Bucky panted a little harder, his breath coming out less even, gasping between words. “Don’t quite… know. Forty minutes… East. If… I keep up… this pace.” Which he’d already began to drop. Steve slowed down the pumping of his legs to match Bucky’s slightly slower one.   
Steve sighed. “Buck, do you…” he nearly cringed, but if he was going to say it, he might as well say it. And it was the importance of the mission, right? “Do you need me to carry you?”  
Bucky laughed a little, a wheezing one. “I’m… not an invalid…” he gasped.   
Steve stopped just long enough for Bucky to climb onto his back. “Be quiet, or I’ll carry you bride-style,” he replied, only half joking.  
Steve made sure that Bucky was comfortable (comfort always came first), and then set off, really sprinting as fast as he could, not worrying about distance. When he’d been following Bucky he’d been going at a nice pace that most humans could achieve; now it was all supersolider, hyperstrength driving his legs to go as fast as he could, bent over just a little so that Bucky could lean forward. 

\--  
Bucky was riding Captain America. He must have been going thirty-five miles per hour, at least.   
Which is why they get there in thirteen minutes.  
“Slow down,” Bucky breathed into Steve’s ear, trying not to be turned on by the fact that his best friend just piggy-backed him across a desert.   
They’re presented with an oasis, and a small, rusted, deteriorated barrack, the small metal kind. There are no guards anywhere, and it looks like a deserted military outpost, certainly not the headquarters of terrorist, hate-filled, world-domination-bent, billionaire-funded, subversive Nazis.  
He was aware that it this point, he could get off Steve’s back and walk on his own. He’d had plenty of time to rest, but something about the way his legs were wrapped around Captain America’s waist and his hands holding onto Steve’s shoulders made him not want to get down. And Steve didn’t seem to mind, either.  
“So, do we just go in?” Steve asked slowly.  
“Uh, I guess.”  
Still not making any motions for Bucky to get off, Steve crept to the door of the tin shack, testing the knob. It opened with some difficulty, not because it was locked, but because the hinges were rusted shut. Eventually, Steve just muttered “hang on”, got a tougher hold of Bucky, and broke down the door with his foot. The inside is just what they expected an old, abandoned barrack to look like. Bunks, and not much more. Bucky uncurled his legs from around Steve’s waist, and finally stepped down. One of his hands that had been interlocked with Steve’s on his shoulder (for stability, of course) was still held by Steve’s, even as they stood side by side. “Now what?” Steve said, rather impatiently.  
“I don’t know,” admitted Bucky, sitting on no bed in particular. As soon as he’d made contact, though, he could feel that the mattress wasn’t a mattress. He sprung back up again, pulling the dirty, torn sheet that had once been white off to reveal a large vault-like door, the crank flesh with the rest of the metal sheet, a number pad above it.  
“Do we look at the numbers to tell which ones have been pressed most and try to figure out the passcode?” Steve asked eagerly, like a little kid presented with a puzzle to solve.  
Bucky smirked. “Nope. We grenade.” He pulled one from his pocket, took out the pin, and ran (except, to be honest, he didn’t have to run far because Steve scooped him up again and ran him as far away from the barrack as he could in ten seconds, shielding Bucky from the explosion even when the grenade went off). They ran back to the (slightly charred) barrack and jumped into the hole.  
Inside was an entirely different world.  
There was a large white corridor that they found themselves in, a soft red alarm pulsing throughout the hallway. They heard a commotion on their left, and turned to see about twenty men running toward them, all dressed in a strange green and yellow uniform.   
“Which way do we go?” Steve hissed to Bucky as the men shouted at them in German.   
“The fun way, of course,” he replied with a wink.  
It was the second time they’d fought together since meeting again, but it was more organised, more precise, with just the two of them against twenty men, on ground that didn’t threaten to trip them with roots or mud that wouldn’t hold them upright. When Bucky fought, he knew that Steve was there. He knew that the HYDRA agent he flipped over his back would be taken out by Steve. He knew that the man that Steve was punching had to be tripped so that Steve could swing his shield to meet the face of another agent. They were in perfect synchronisation, fighting like they’d practised. Soon, the corridor was unobstructed to them (except for the bodies piled round), and they continued on. There were lots of little hallways that branched off the main one, but a noise that grew, a sickening, chanting sound drew them forward.  
Soon the corridor opened up to a vast room, filled with about a thousand men in the same uniform as the ones they’d fought earlier. The men were chanting in response to something one man was calling out to them, standing at the opposite end of the room on a stage, surrounded by strange machines and large green banners. Strucker.  
“The world is not prepared for us! We will have victory! We have grown here, in the darkness like a mould, too strong for them to blot out!”Strucker was shouting the crowd, received with shouts of agreement and fists in the air. “We will rise! We will conquer! They cannot defy us! If you cut off one arm?” The army fired their guns into the ceiling in response. “TWO WILL GROW IN ITS PLACE! HAIL HYDRA!”  
“HAIL HYDRA! HAIL HYDRA! HAIL HYDRA!” The army repeated.   
Steve looked at Bucky with an expression of horror. Bucky was sure that he could hardly keep his own feelings of shock and fear from his face. He’d been vastly unprepared for this mission, and he was sure that it wasn’t because of a lack of briefing on headquarters’ part, but a lack of knowledge. He was sure that no one really knew the severity of the situation—and if they did, then they wouldn’t be fighting Nazis on the soil above.  
“Well, at least I’ve found Strucker,” Bucky muttered.  
A HYDRA agent near the back noticed them, turned slowly, and then shouted a few words to his companions. Cap shifted nervously on his feet as an agent ran up to Strucker and pointed them out. His cries of violence stopped abruptly, and the entire army turned and stared at the two of them.   
“Ah… Captain America,” Strucker called to them in his clipped German accent. The army before them parted to make an aisle, and a few guards came up behind them and took their weapons, forcing them toward Strucker with guns pointed at their backs. “I have been waiting for you to find me.”  
Which was ironic, Bucky thought, because originally, Captain America wouldn’t have known anything about HYDRA at all, if it hadn’t been for Bucky’s secret mission.  
“And Sergeant Barnes…” Strucker continued. Bucky’s eyes shot up to him, surprised. “Thank you for bringing him here. I realise that it would have been impossible for him to notice us otherwise… so preoccupied with his silly little war.”  
“What the hell are you talking about, Strucker?” Bucky snarled, confused. A quick glance at Cap’s face confirmed that he was just as perplexed.   
Strucker chuckled, descending the few step from the stage and advancing more until he stood only a few paces away from Bucky; close enough that Bucky could have jumped forward and broken his neck, if there hadn’t been over a thousand soldiers with their guns pointed at him. “Come now, Sergeant. You must have thought it suspicious. Your commanding officer told you that you were to go on a secret mission, and use deceiving Captain America into thinking that you just happened to be sent in as reinforcements. You didn’t think it strange that you knew precisely the place where he would be ambushed two hours before he radioed for help? It didn’t seem a little… staged, the way the planes the next morning lead you exactly where you needed to go? You were the real decoy, Sergeant Barnes. I knew Captain America would follow you here, especially after you’d shared such a special childhood bond… eh, Steven Rogers?”   
“No…” Bucky muttered. He was angry with himself. It was true; it did seem strange, but he hadn’t thought about it. A soldier’s job was to listen to orders, not to question them. Which made him the perfect man for the job… the job of trapping Captain America in an underground base with no escape.   
Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw a man approach. He snapped his head toward him and realized that it was his commanding officer, except he was dressed in a high-ranking HYDRA uniform instead of his regular military garb. The man nodded at Bucky. “That’s right. This is the real headquarters. Ever wondered why you’d never made direct contact with the base, or why your radio only had one channel?”  
One thought tugged at the back of Bucky’s mind. He’d thought it was fate that brought him and Cap back together, after so many years. But it hadn’t been. It was some sick Nazi cult leader who knew all about Captain America’s secret identity, and their past together.  
Bucky looked into Steve’s eyes, his beautiful, hurt eyes. “Cap… I swear, I didn’t know.”  
Steve met his eyes, giving him a weak smile. “I know, Buck. I believe you.”  
Relief poured over Bucky’s insides, although it shouldn’t have. All that mattered was that Steve knew that he never meant to deceive him. He should have been worried about how they were going to make it out alive, but he couldn’t focus on that. He felt fingers curl inside his, and looked down to see Steve’s blue-gloved hand holding his own.   
“If this is the end, Buck—“ Steve started, voice lower than the men around them could hear.  
“Cap, no…”  
“No, listen.” Steve pulled Bucky close to him, and at first Bucky thought that he was going to share a plan, some miraculous strategy that would set things right. “If this is the end, I want you to know that I love you. I always have.”   
Bucky’s pained eyes shifted up to meet Steve’s, his heart heavy. Somehow, hearing that was worse than hearing Steve say outright that he gave up. He was glad to know that he loved him, of course, but it meant that Steve really did think it was the end, to be quite that vulnerable.   
Before Bucky could say something witty in retort like “Took ya long enough, ya big nerd”, or even “I love you too,” or something reassuring like “We’ll get out of this, Cap, don’t you worry,” a few guards decided that that was quite enough physical contact, and roughly pulled them apart. Bucky’s arms were pinned behind his back, and his head was forced up, to watch whatever show Strucker had planned for him.   
“I have a present for you, Captain,” Strucker said, turning around and motioning for Steve to follow, like they were on a leisurely walk. The guards at Steve’s back tried to push him forward, but he stood firmly in place, feet planted on the ground, unmoving. Strucker realized he wasn’t moving, and turned back. “Please, Captain,” he snapped, motioning again. This time, Steve walked forward voluntarily while the guards scowled, and Bucky nearly laughed at Steve’s little power play.  
At Strucker’s signal, a guard on the stage pulled a large rope, and the green curtains in the back of the room pulled aside to reveal two metal pods—large enough to hold a man. “Recognize it, Captain?” Strucker asked, and looking at Steve’s face, Bucky could tell that something like recognition crossed his face. Bucky remembered the pod that Steve had mentioned earlier that injected the serum into him. “The first one analyses your blood, and derives a serum from it that can be injected into anyone else to create more supersoldiers… an army of supersoldiers.” Strucker’s intentions were clear.  
“What makes you think I’ll comply?” Steve hissed.  
“Because, if you don’t—“ Strucker snapped his fingers, and the guard holding Bucky’s arms behind his back suddenly twisted his arm and held him tighter, making Bucky cry out. The other guard’s gun clicked. “I’ll have your friend murdered.”  
“Don’t do it, Steve,” Bucky spat out. “I’m expendable. We can’t have an army of these maniacs as strong as you,” but even as he said it, he knew that when it came between him and his duty, Steve would always choose Bucky.  
Steve looked Strucker in the eye. “How do I know that you won’t kill him even if I do agree?”  
Strucker pulled a gun out of its holster and pointed it straight out Bucky. “If you don’t get in the pod right now, I will kill him.”  
Steve nodded. “NOW!” he yelled to Bucky. He flipped clear behind the guards holding him and knocked their heads together, rendering them unconscious. He got his shield from where it lay on the ground and hurled it at Strucker. Strucker ducked, but the shield wasn’t meant for him. It spun through the air and firmly lodged itself in the control board of the pod, smoke and sparks pouring from the now useless machine.   
At Steve’s shout, Bucky wrenched his arms free, as his guard’s attentions were on Steve, and ducked as the punch the guard on the left threw for Bucky’s face landed on the guard to the right. Bucky grabbed their gun and quickly killed both of them, then shot Strucker in the leg as he ducked Steve’s shield. Strucker cried and fell to the ground. The army of HYDRA agents around them surged forward, but Steve knelt down and put his hands together, forming a lift. Bucky ran to him and planted one boot in his hands as Steve pushed up, vaulting him toward the ceiling. Bucky grabbed one of the many banners with the odd skull and tentacles on it, twisting his legs around it like a rope as he leaned down backward to catch Steve’s arms. Bucky had picked a specific banner near a vent, and the two of them quickly crawled into it.  
Bucky panted, adrenaline surging through his veins. “I can’t believe we just did that.”  
In front of him, Steve turned back for a minute and gave him a sweet smile. “Couldn’t have done it without you, pal.”  
Continuing to shimmy along the small tunnel, Bucky enjoyed the view of Steve’s ass in the skin-tight costume that showed off every curve and plane of all his muscle, sort of begging to be grabbed.   
Now is not the time, Bucky reminded himself.

\--  
Steve was unsure. For one of the first times in his life, he had absolutely no idea about what he should do next. From the moment he’d followed Bucky away from camp and out into the desert, he’d been throwing cautions to the wind, and it had nearly gotten them killed. He was used to responsibility, especially as Captain America. He’d been used to taking care of Bucky, those few times that Bucky would let him. But he’d never gone at things in such an irresponsible way. There was a moment there, when Bucky’d had every gun in the whole place pointed at his pretty head that Steve had nearly given in and just gotten in the pod, before he reminded himself that there was always a way out, and Steve Rogers never gave in. There was also a moment after he’d yelled “NOW” that he’d worried that Bucky wouldn’t be able to keep up, and his terrible risk would end up worse than if he’d just gone along, but here he was, leading Bucky down a ventilation shaft, and things were actually looking up. He and Bucky just might get out of it alive.  
His own voice admitting to Bucky that he loved him echoed in his head.   
He hadn’t expected Bucky to say it back, not really, but he sort of knew that Bucky did. And Steve made himself another promise, silently: If we ever get out of this, Buck, I’m going to retire and elope with you.  
That’s when the transmission on the radio came through.  
He’d forgotten that his emergency radio was still hooked up to his backpack, until it crackled and came to life, Strucker’s clipped German accent rapping out words, a few blotted out by static.   
“You should not have done that, Captain America.”  
He paused for a minute and looked back at Bucky, silently asking their next course of action.  
Bucky nodded, and Steve picked up the radio. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”  
“Because, now I shall have to use my plan B. You will not like plan B.”  
Steve sighed and responded again. “I don’t have time for this, Strucker.”  
“Yes, and neither do you.”  
Bucky grabbed the radio. “Listen, we’re tired of your games. What’s plan B?”  
“I have many aeroplanes in my hangar, with technology beyond what you Americans can comprehend. One of these aeroplanes, small enough to be undetected by most enemy radar, but large enough to carry cargo, can fly without a pilot. It is currently carrying seven large bombs, ready to detonate upon impact of America’s greatest cities. If I cannot have my supersoldier army, Captain, then I shall take America.” The transmission crackled and then made a tone to signal that Strucker had shut off his radio.  
Bucky’s panicked eyes searched Steve’s, as their hearts crashed. “He has to be bluffing,” Bucky breathed.  
“We can’t take that chance.”  
Bucky nodded. “Then we do what we have to.”  
Steve nodded back, once, then continued on down the craped vent. “If this is like most bases I’ve been to, then the hangar will be this way.” He took a turn left, then stopped after about twenty paces. “Now we go down.”  
When they broke through a cross section of the ventilation and landed on the floor of the hangar, Steve quickly pointed at one plane, hatches closing, security procedures running. He and Bucky ran toward it, managing to get inside just as it started to take off on its own.   
“Do you know how to fly it?” Steve asked Bucky. The plane started going on its own and the doors of the hangar opened. There was a long tunnel—almost like a runway going up—and the plane began its ascent. Soon, it opened out into the sky and began flying among the clouds.  
Bucky looked at the controls with a confused expression on his face. “He was right about it being technologically advanced… I’ve never seen a console like this.” He frowned. “But I might be able to disarm the bombs.” He went to the back and started getting to work on the seven large missiles. The names of American cities were painted on the sides; New York City, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles, and Phoenix. Steve was about to join him when a specific panel on the console lit up and turned into a screen, a transmission from Strucker coming through.  
“Captain, Captain… you have made things so much easier for me. Thank you for crawling inside my little death trap. Now I shall not need a coffin for your bodies.”  
“Strucker!” Steve yelled, punching the screen and shattering the glass. A few sparks and puffs of smoke came from the mechanism, and the transmission died.  
Bucky looked over at him. “Try not to break anything else until we find out how it works.” He stood and joined Steve at the front.  
“Any luck disarming the bombs?”  
Bucky shook his head, face solemn. “Too many wires. I don’t even think they can be turned off, from the start of detonation. All of them have a countdown—I think it’s for when they’ll be released from the plane to go toward the cities on their own.”  
Steve looked at the panel, full of lights and toggle switches. Then we do what we have to. “I have an idea about how to stop them… from reaching their destination.”  
The meaning of the small pause was not lost on Bucky’s mind. “Okay,” he said quietly.   
Steve went to the controls and manually took off auto pilot, managing to fly it off course enough to head directly for the icy waters in the direction of Antarctica before the systems began to lock up. Steve turned toward Bucky, grim-faced. “They have some sort of override at base. The codes I put through will only last for a few more minutes.”  
Bucky eyed a button on the wall. “Then self-destruct.”  
Steve nodded, initiating procedure. 

\--  
Bucky rummaged through the cupboards in the back, not knowing exactly what he was looking for, or what it would mean if he found it. Then, there they were. Two military-grade standard parachutes, army green, but with the HYDRA symbol painted on. He went toward Steve and offered him one.  
“Five minutes,” Steve said, taking one and putting it on.   
They stood near the back hatch, and when they had a minute, he pressed the lever, and the back opened up, showing miles of just icy water waiting below for them. He caught Steve looking at him with a concerned expression. That was just like Steve, to be concerned about how Bucky was feeling at the end. Bucky caught his eyes and smiled. “Till the end of the line, pal.”  
Steve swallowed, and took his hand. “3…2…”  
“One!” Bucky shouted, and they jumped.  
Except Bucky didn’t go far.  
His left arm snagged on something, his ripped uniform catching on some fateful hinge. Still holding Steve’s hand, his weight wrenched on his right arm. Bucky groped out with his left as he felt his shoulder wrench and pop out of joint. He screamed out in pain, grabbing out. His hands closed around something and he tried to pull himself up and lift free, when he realized that it was the lever to the hatch.  
It slowly moved shut, clamping Bucky’s arm pinned in between the doors like jaws. He heard something crunch as the doors forced shut more, and he howled into the freezing air, spitting blood.  
“Bucky!” Steve screamed up at him, still holding his hand.  
Through the pain, one clear thought invaded Bucky’s mind. Keep Steve safe.  
“Steve!” he screamed. “You have to let go.” His arm shifted slightly, wrist pinched on something inside the plane. “You have to let go.”  
“No!” Steve screamed back. “I’m not going, not without you!”  
Over the roar of the engines, or the blood pounding in Bucky’s head, or the whir of the doors slowly splintering his shoulder, everything suddenly went quiet. Bucky could see into Steve’s eyes with perfect clarity. “It’s going to explode in less than a minute. You have to let go.”  
Fuck. He always knew that it would be planes that would get him in the end.  
“I’ll never forget you, Buck,” Steve choked out in between tears.  
“I know.”

\--  
Steve slowly slipped his fingers out of Bucky’s. His big, strong hands. They used to be so small and fragile. But in the end, they hadn’t done much, had they? They’d saved countless faces, punched countless others. But no person he’d ever saved had compared to that one time he couldn’t save Bucky.  
The plane zipped by for a moment more before it exploded, the heat and impact pushing Steve back with just the warmest breath for air.   
He even forgot to pull the chain for the parachute to inflate, didn’t even feel the sensation of falling. Just kept watching Bucky pull farther away before the flames encased him and he didn’t see him at all.  
Then an impact like his legs on concrete jarred through him, and his lungs were filling with impossibly icy water and he let go of any tangible thought, veins filling with shards of ice as his mind slowly slipped into the crushing sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, Chapter 2 all in one go! I cry with you over the agony of Bucky's death. Unfortunately, me having posted Chapter 2 altogether means that Chapter 3 will take longer for me to write, so you might have to wait awhile... but I'm working on it! Thank you so much for your support. Your kudos and comments have been so sweet!


	3. 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative name for the chapter: rewriting the history of The Winter Solider and Civil War (basically) so I can clear the history out of the way and hurry up and get to the chub kink! No SHIELD, no Avengers. It’s a bit confusing in the beginning, but that’s just because our favourite ninety year old’s having a bit of trouble navigating the new world. Enjoy!

Steve Rogers wasn’t sure how he felt about fate. He’d been raised as Catholic, and they believe in predestination (everything happens for a reason, and God knows what happens before it happens), where destiny and chance didn’t really have a place, but since the war, he wasn’t quite sure what he believed about anything. All he knew was that fate was a tricky, complicated thing, and they weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

In 1943, he hadn’t expected to ever see Bucky again. But there he was, saving his life and fighting together like destiny had brought them together again, like they were meant to be. Either fate, or some sort of guiding force had brought them together again. Then he’d learned that it wasn’t that at all; that HYDRA had control over the entire situation and it had been carefully planned out that they would meet again, he’d been hurt… well, not really, because he hadn’t had any time to process his hurt.

So he’s not quite sure what he believes when exactly 70 years later, he’s staring at James Buchanan Barnes’ pretty face, like a day hasn’t passed (except, not quite. His hair is longer, he hasn’t shaven in about a week, he’s got smoke on his face, and worst of all, a hollow, empty expression in his eyes like he doesn’t recognize Steve, but he doesn’t have time to think about that right now). Fate? Destiny? HYDRA?

His first thought, before he even realised the situation, was one of absolutely no surprise. Like he expected to see him there. Some part of him realised that he’d been expecting Bucky to actually be alive and show up every time he turned around, because his death still hit him like a fresh blow to the face, because even though it’d been seventy years, to him it felt like five minutes. CRASH. He hit the water. His systems slowly failed. Then, like blinking and knowing you’ve been asleep, he was being pulled from the water by some arctic exploration team, and some government thing was briefing him on the last seventy years, but he still felt numb, even though he wasn’t frozen anymore and they’d checked all his vital systems, which seemed to be running fine (thanks to the supersoldier serum, it had put him in this state of what the guy called ‘suspended animation’… he hadn’t quite grasped the concept, still hasn’t even grasped the concept of living in the twenty first century), he still felt like some part of him was deeply frozen, left in the Antarctic waters, never to be thawed again. Then barely five seconds after that, they were talking about giving him a government position as Captain America again (without asking his opinion, thank you very much), and then he was thrown back into fighting again, like he had no choice, like he was still a soldier who had to go fight weird Russian or German assassins.

But it hadn’t been any Russian or German assassin (not actually Russian or German at all? They’d said he was a Russian Nazi, but what does that mean, really? And Bucky wasn’t a Nazi… he was Jewish. Steve wondered if everything about the 21st century was this damn fast… everything rushed along, and so many details got dropped through the cracks). It had been Bucky.

His second thought was disbelief. No, no way it could be Bucky. Bucky was dead. He’d seen the flames devour him. It was too coincidental for Bucky to show up the same week Steve had (although according the government, he’d been around a bit more since then). It had to be some random Russian assassin that just happened to _look_ like Bucky, which was entirely possible. Steve looked to Bucky’s left arm for that scar, the one he’d gotten when breaking open that window, the one that made him recognize him the first time they’d been separated.

Except, instead of a flesh arm that may or may not have had a scar on it, the Russian assassin had a metal arm, built in perfect proportion with his other one, muscular and lethal, strong enough to actually stop Steve’s shield (the same one he’d used then… the same one that it felt like just yesterday he’d flung in Strucker’s pod) as he knelt on the ground and stopped its flight with a metal arm, barely pushed backward by the force.

His _left_ arm, Steve noted.

Bucky’s left arm had been pinned between the two doors of the plane when they’d jumped.

His third thought was no denial.

It was Bucky.

“Bucky?” he gasped out.

The Winter Soldier’s angry, blank eyes looked into Steve’s own, and the assassin spat out in English, “Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

\--

“But I knew him,” Bucky protested, contemplating those blue eyes that looked at him like they’d known him, too.

Something almost like a memory came back to him, a whiff of a scent of some pastry.

Although he wasn’t sure what pastry he would have had. He was fed at the end of every mission, a cold, thin, watery paste that resembled oatmeal. Then he was frozen until the next time he would become necessary.

The thoughts were wiped from his mind as the familiar cold settled about him.

 

\--

Steve burst into Ryder’s office, despite the protests of his secretary. He was on the phone. Steve rudely barged directly up to the desk, took the phone in one hand, and crushed it (it was easier than turning the damn thing off… Steve didn’t trust those touch-screen things. Plus it had the intimidating effect he was going for).

“What the hell, Rogers!” Ryder exclaimed.

“No, you listen here, son.” Steve got very close to his face. He hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of calling people ‘son’—it made him sound old. But he _was_ old, he reminded himself, even though he looked about twenty-five, he had serum coursing through his veins. “You can pull me out of the ocean. You can decide to make me Captain America again, even dress me up in my old costume,” he quipped, gesturing to himself. It did have a few alterations, though, and he was glad of that. The twenty first century had a way of making goofy things look menacing, he could admit that much. “But you can’t lie to me about what I’m going to do on a mission. You said that there was only one organisation that would interfere with my authority, and that would be HYDRA, the same organisation Bucky died trying to destroy, and they would send a Russian Nazi assassin out to kill me, the Winter Soldier, and I’d have to confront him before he found me. That’s what you said,” he repeated, giving Ryder a chance to point out a miscommunication.

“I… don’t see your problem, Rogers,” Ryder said slowly, with the tiniest hint of fear in his eyes.

“That was no Russian assassin. That was James Buchanan Barnes.”

“That… was the operative’s name, yes.”

Steve dropped his voice lower, got even closer in Ryder’s face. “And you don’t see how that presents a problem?”

Ryder slowly shook his head. Steve pulled back. He must not know.

“We fought together in the 107th. Hell, it goes farther back than that. We grew up together. He took care of me when my mom died. When I fell into the ice, after that plane exploded? He was the one that was caught in the explosion. I watched him die.”

“James… Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve sighed. “Christ, Ryder. Don’t you do background checks? They’ve got my fucking exhibit at the museum. They’ve got a fucking twelve foot poster of me and Bucky on the wall.”

 

\--

Ryder and Steve had spent the rest of the day doing a proper background check, but had found out even less than what they had known before, if it was even possible. Steve couldn’t shake Bucky’s confused eyes from his head. Why didn’t he recognize him? Why had he acted so… unlike Bucky?

As the weeks went by without a sign of the Winter Soldier or Bucky, Steve adjusted to being Captain America in the twenty-first century. He began to feel more and more unattached from the Steve he had been, in the way he got whenever he didn’t have that anchor connecting him through the decades. Being Captain America didn’t involve fighting, or even show business, like the early days, and Steve wondered if America even fought wars the same way. He was on television a lot, reading pre-scripted things for the American public. He was an icon in a sort of untouchable way, so alienated from the world and carefully introduced to everything new in the least shocking way by the cultural experts who explained things to him. Ryder (who had been officially appointed as the man ‘in charge’ of Steve, like he was some pet the government kept around for propaganda and diplomacy) had actually hired about six teenagers to come in and explain pop culture to Steve on Tuesdays, and on Thursdays he had history lessons.

One time, he was in a stuffy office room with a fourteen year old girl with blue hair and thick-framed glasses (she didn’t even need them, he was pretty sure, and it was past him as to why she would want to wear them), and she had been trying in vain for the last hour or so to explain Amazon.

“No, you don’t mail them your cash… listen to what I’m saying. You use a credit card. That’s like… plastic virtual money. You put the numbers in, and then the account remembers them for you. Then when you buy something, it deducts the money from your card.”

Steve was staring blankly out a window, watching the people down in the streets of DC below, on their phones, walking their dogs, having picnics. He was beginning to have what one other teenager had described as a “FOMO”, although he didn’t quite understand that, either.

He realized that the girl had stopped talking, and he turned his head and saw her watching him. “Sorry, I’m listening,” he lied. “Go on.”

“You haven’t been outside in a while, have you?” she said in her odd new accent. Steve described it as ‘young’… just a way that teenagers talked now, fast and with a slight dip on the vowels, in the strange non-regional sort of way that he had an accent.

“I just went for a walk yesterday…” he replied. Two government officials had followed him while he walked around the block that contained the facility where Steve lived. He wasn’t imprisoned, exactly; he could have asked to go for ice cream, or walked farther than just around the block. But even though Ryder had been sure he was introduced to the new century in a gentle way, as if he was a fragile old man getting culture classes (which he was, he supposed), he hadn’t experienced it.

The girl sighed. “That’s not what I meant. See, I think there’s a certain element missing from your classes,” she said matter-of-factly, in a way that Steve almost found amusing. Teens were so damn serious now. “People today can experience the world online, yeah, but that’s just because they are unmotivated, or unwilling to go out in it.” Steve noticed that his gaze had slowly gravitated to the window again. “I think you need to break the rules, get away. The government’s being so careful not to scare you that they’re going to bore you to death,” she chuckled a little. “And then you’ll be no different from the rest of us.”

She’d continued her lesson on Instagram and “selfies”, but what she’d said stuck with Steve. If he was going to understand the world, he had to be a part of it, not a fucking museum piece (literally and figuratively).

That afternoon when he was taking a walk, he’d mentioned to the security guards that he was going to take a run round the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. They’d waited at his starting point, not really wanting to run with him (since he could go quite fast, thanks to the supersoldier serum), and when they weren’t looking, Steve ran straight on, past the end of the reflecting pool.

He had a twenty in his pocket—Ryder had given it to him and he’d nearly protested before Ryder’d explained that it wasn’t that much. Steve had just put “inflation” under the list of things that he didn’t understand about the twenty-first century. He found an ice cream place and ordered a nice large vanilla cone, enjoying the soft serve dripping onto his knuckles in the May heat. He filed “ice cream” under the list of things that hadn’t changed in seventy years.

Suddenly, the little blond hairs on his neck pricked up and he knew he was being watched. He spun around, but all the view presented him with was people enjoying their Tuesday afternoon. He still couldn’t shake the feeling.

He felt paws jumping up on the backs of his knees, and turned to see a white and black border collie sniffing at his ass. A little embarrassed, he brushed the dog back down to the ground and tousled its ears, scrubbing at its back.

The owner ran up a little, holding the leash out like the dog had pulled her along, and apologized. “I’m so sorry! I just got him three days ago, and I’m still trying to train him.”

“It’s no problem,” Steve replied, accepting the dog’s kisses and then waving goodbye as they parted ways. He’d been distracted, and the feeling of being watched had passed, but he spent the rest of his day a little more aware of his surroundings.

 

\--

He’d _known_ the man on the bridge. Regardless of what they’d told him. It was almost strange, to find a thought in his head that HYDRA hadn’t put there, but he held onto that one thought. Even as they tried to wipe his mind and every detail of the man’s appearance faded from his memory, he held onto that. He’d been waiting to be reassigned to the mission (it was very, very rare that he’d fail at an assassination, but in the event that he did not succeed, they gave him a quick second chance simply because he was their best, and he never failed twice), but he’d heard no more about it. He’d hardly been unfrozen in the last month at all, and even though his grasp on the passing of time outside of cryo was a bit spotty, he could tell that enough time had passed that he would not be assigned to that particular man again.

The memory had consumed him, tugging at his mind in a painful way, and if he mentally leaned toward the memory, sometimes something would come back to him. More often, his head would just hurt. He’d had two such successful instances, two inexplicable almost-memories; running through a desert, and the smell of pastries. The latter was the more potent, the connection that scent brought to memory nearly making the scent distinguishable. The first he could easily consider as having been part of any of his previous missions, he was sure he’d been to the desert for one of them, but this one seemed different, like an odd emotion of purposefulness was attached to the memory. Both of them haunted him.

So one day he’d escaped. All the training was there, he’d simply never considered using it against his captors (and he’d never thought of them as his captors, either). Once he’d gotten away, escaped from wherever it was he’d been frozen in for years, he could finally grab hold of his own mind in a tangible sort of way he never knew was possible. He would sleep in his own time, wake up from day to day with the knowledge of the day before. He even started to collect a sort of vague idea about who he was, a personification that was slowly growing about what sort of a person he’d like to be. The fog that always came whenever he thought about anything other than a mission slowly departed, and he even began to get hints about what his life might have been like pre-HYDRA. There was one key to his past, even more potent than his own mind could supply: the man. He’d known the man. More importantly, the man had known him. He’d called him a name. He couldn’t quite remember the name, his last wipe had made sure of that. But he had some sort of notion that if he could find the man, he could find out more about his past.

He got an apartment close to where he’d fought the man, finally experiencing a world that he’d only grasped at before. It was astonishing how quickly he applied himself to finding the man, like he was his mission like he’d been before. Except, this was a mission he chose for himself.

He found out the man’s name, although that held no meaning to him. He found out where the man—Steve—lived. He observed him every day and found out exactly at what time (3 pm) he would take a walk around his block, accompanied by two other men. He’d watch Steve, hoping that more memories would come back, that just observing the way he moved and acted would bring something else back. But the only thing that it brought was a desire to be closer.

One Tuesday when he was watching Steve take his daily walk, the blond diverted from his usual routine by jogging past the rectangle-shaped lake. He’d kept up, moving from the café he’d been observing Steve from to a park bench, always about fifty feet behind, just keeping him in sight. He knew exactly how to blend in with a crowd and look normal; he’d had to do lots of undercover work for missions before. After he’d escaped, he’d quickly gotten rid of anything that reminded him of that fog that threatened to remove all clarity from his mind. He’d thrown out the uniform, bought baggy jeans and red Henley’s and large jackets and baseball caps, dressing a tad inappropriately for the warm weather, but a less defined shape helped to not attract attention, and the long sleeves covered up his eye-catching metal arm.

So he blended in to the best of his abilities, lounging with imitation ease on park benches, purchasing some ice cream a few minutes after Steve had (and even though he’d just had lunch at the café while watching Steve take his walk and it hadn’t been a small meal, he figured that he might as well enjoy his time and do the same thing Steve was doing), even petting the same dog that Steve had and smiling at the woman telling him all about how she’d gotten the dog.

He followed Steve until it began to get dark and he could tell that Steve was going back to his apartment in the building with all the security guards, so he went home to his own apartment, feeling more satisfied than an evening of stalking a ghost would encourage.

 

\--

Steve returned just as the sky turned from orange and pink to violet and navy, the last glow of sun in the west just having been gone for fifteen minutes. The security guards at the entrance gave him a “you’re in big trouble” face. The receptionist’s eyes widened when she saw him. “You’re in _huge_ trouble, Rogers. You’d better see Ryder right away.”

Steve sighed and took the elevator. When he stepped into the office (not bothering to wait to be buzzed in, because he was Captain Fucking America), Ryder started off right away. “Goddammit, Steve! You can’t just do that! Where the fuck did you go? We didn’t tell our people that you’d be out today! What if you’d been caught by paparazzi, or—“

Steve held up his head (which didn’t stop Ryder), and spoke with an even tone. “I’m not some celebrity that you need to protect with bodyguards, and you’re not my publicist. I don’t need to be imprisoned or protected, and I don’t have to check in with you everywhere I go. I’m America’s pet on a leash, and if you think that’s how things work, stuff’s going to change around here.”

Ryder sighed, but clearly Steve’s confidence about tackling the new era (and that was the point of the whole establishment, anyway, to make sure that Steve didn’t have a heart attack by seeing someone zip past on a Segway) had somewhat eased his worries. “What do you want?”

And that’s how Steve got to live in an apartment building where he didn’t have security guards as neighbours (that he knew of, although he wouldn’t put it past Ryder), and got his own cell phone. He wasn’t very clear on where his salary came from, although according to Ryder he had an actual job with a real name… something having to do with being paid to just be America’s greatest legend and icon. All he knew was that he had a real life now, with his own apartment and own budget, and he could go out for dinner when he didn’t feel like cooking, and he could take walks or runs anytime he wanted.

Something still felt missing, however, in the little life he’d constructed for himself. Although his time certainly wasn’t empty (Ryder had scheduled in more strategic meetings and press conferences, and even discussed giving him a place on some board of executives with international affairs because of his experience), it still felt void of something beyond structure, something warm and whole that Steve lacked.

And, of course, there was always the issue of the Winter Soldier. He’d doubtless been Bucky, and Steve would have immediately dropped everything if he thought he could have gone after him, but three things were stopping him. First, Ryder could find no information regarding him at all, even with his intelligence levels, even in his most confidential circles, and Steve would have no place to start (although that alone wouldn’t have stopped him). Second, he wasn’t sure if Bucky would welcome Steve trailing after him. He had tried to kill him after all, and he’d made it clear that he hadn’t remembered him. There was no way that Steve wanted to let Bucky go, but he didn’t have much of a choice (which still wouldn’t have prevented him from doing something). But third, and most important of all, he had the strangest sensation that he needn’t go looking for Bucky.

Why look for someone when they had already found you?

 

\--

As Steve became more adjusted and his title shifted from “Resident Ex-Superhero” to “Domestic Government Agent”, he had more duties in the field (although Ryder had made sure to keep anything even remotely related to HYDRA off Steve’s radar). It was certainly less glamorous than what Steve had expected; although, what, really, had he been expecting? To get pulled out of the ice and immediately initiated into a team of superheroes consisting of various heroes, freaks of nature, and government projects who would swear to protect earth from catastrophes such as alien invasions or super-sentient robots? Stop living in the twentieth century, Steve.

What he had done was team up with a few other government operatives and stop pirates from hijacking a cargo ship that contained special new military technology. Not as glamorous or publicised (and certainly less messy) as what Steve had thought being a ‘superhero’ would involve, but necessary.

On one such not-glamorous-but-necessary mission to ride in a train from California to Canada with two ambassadors, Steve got the feeling that he was being watched again. He looked around the room (they were currently in the dining car; Steve had suggested the two ambassadors take their dinner in their private, secluded car, but they’d wanted to take the risk to dine in the presence of other passengers, confident that Steve and the other bodyguard could evade any attack) and didn’t notice anything out of the usual, although, admittedly, he wasn’t sure what type of passenger would be usual for a special overnight train.

 

\--

He’d reached a level of justification where he could tell himself that it was perfectly normal to follow Steve around DC… for experimental purposes regarding his memory, of course, and when his main activity involved following Steve, it had gotten to the point where it seemed natural to buy a train ticket to Canada just to observe Steve more… so much so that it would seem strange not to go. He wanted to keep tabs on Steve, and although he had plenty of connections with Steve’s next mission that people who hadn’t been HYDRA agents wouldn’t have, the best information about Steve’s trip that he could get was being there himself.

He never understood diplomacy, and especially didn’t understand the need for ambassadors between two countries who spoke the same language and (generally) shared the same culture, but he sat at one end of the dining car, watching Steve look around a bit too conspicuously. He’d considered himself somewhat of an expert about what places Steve frequented for lunch in DC, and he’d attended the same places himself (for research, of course) to further understand Steve, going regularly enough that he’d know exactly what he thought about each item on the menu, and it was nice to try something out of the usual, having exhausted all the different possibilities at the restaurants he usually went to. He knew enough about Steve (through observation) to know that Steve was content to order the same meal every time he went to the same restaurant, and he knew that it wasn’t absolutely necessary to go to the same restaurants, but he’d gone so far that a step further seemed like not pushing the boundaries at all. He still had the same motivation that he’d had the first time he followed Steve: hoping that another trace of a memory from a past life would wiggle into his subconscious. His dreams were lit ablaze (to make up for all the dreams he never had while sleeping in cryo, he supposed… he never dreamt during the stiff, forced periods of rest, if you could call it rest) with fevered images and scattered concepts, but when he awoke nothing made sense the way it did in a dream, and nothing directly answered the questions he so desperately wanted answering. Every day, though, every moment spent with Steve, even apart, was more of a clue to who Steve was, and who he was, and more importantly, who he was in relation to Steve.

He knew one undeniable fact about himself.

He loved Italian food.

He was delighted to discover that the train had a variety of international dishes, especially a delicious six-layered lasagne, rich with cheeses and sauces and meats and spices, bringing his cold, dead tongue alive and flooding his senses with memories of scent that he couldn’t grasp at. The wine the waiter had suggested went with it fabulously, enhancing the flavour of the entire meal. Once he’d finished the entire dish of the wonderful layered pasta (and not a small piece, either), he sat back in his booth, enjoying the aftertaste of the meal in his mouth, and the feeling of warm, good food inside him. He’d found such a new appreciation for food post-HYDRA. There was a difference between _food_ , and _sustenance_ , he’d decided. Sustenance was when you needed to put something in you with carbs and possibly protein to give you energy for a few more hours. Food was when you wanted to enjoy the wonders that culture could provide to one of your most important senses that also stimulated all the others in a plethora of joys that just thinking about could cause his mouth to water. And, he’d also decided, the two didn’t necessarily need to cross. Food could provide sustenance, yes, but one didn’t always need to consume food… for sustenance. Which was to say that he didn’t only eat when he was hungry, anymore. Often, he’d find himself eating when he wasn’t hungry, or having started out when he was hungry, but pushing himself past hungry and into overfull, continuing to eat to pass the time, to enjoy the flavour, to experience the culture and joy and sensation of food. His love of food and often overindulgence in it and a specific lack of funds that added to making delicious food so accessible (he had enough knowledge from his HYDRA missions about how to wire himself money from any one of HYDRA’s funds… ridiculous millionaires wouldn’t miss a hundred dollars here and there to support one of their own soldiers, and it was his own personal laugh in the face at HYDRA, living up his escaped life while he could, and waiting his days out until they inevitably came back after him, not like he’d go without a fight) had added to his waistline in a substantial way, thickening his frame and creating a convex mound where his once toned abdomen had been. He was still muscular, certainly, but with a layer of softness plumping his frame. It wasn’t even noticeable, not really, just a layer of softness atop his hips, pressing against pants and threatening to spill over occasionally, except for on his face, where his cheeks had rounded out and a soft little double chin had shadowed his jawline. He didn’t mind; not particularly. No one was close enough to him to notice the change or prod him about it, and it didn’t get in his way. It meant that he was comfortable, and settling into an (almost) normal American life… even if he didn’t know his own name, and his main hobby included stalking one particular person to other countries. It even helped him blend in sometimes. He looked less suspicious with an added layer of pudge on him, not quite so menacing and angular as he had a month or two ago, even if his metal arm didn’t quite match his flesh one anymore. He wasn’t even sure how much he’d gained, not really having access to a scale. Only about fifteen pounds, he figured, which was barely anything. He wasn’t even overweight probably, not technically. One problem it did present was his once baggy civilian clothes becoming tighter and less form-hiding, but if moving up his trouser size a few inches was to be sacrificed for being comfortable, enjoying the simpler pleasures of life, and having a thrice-daily “fuck you” to HYDRA, he wasn’t complaining.

 

\--

Steve was restless. It was late (or early), and he couldn’t sleep in the tiny, cramped pull-out beds of the private compartment. He made the weight restriction (just barely), but not the height one, and his feet kept thumping into the plastic wall. It was more than just having not enough space to stretch out, though, and most nights, he slept curled up in the foetal position anyway. He didn’t usually have much trouble sleeping in his own apartment, but he wasn’t tired and couldn’t get comfortable and didn’t like sleeping in strange surroundings.

Assuming that the other bodyguard could handle themselves for at least fifteen minutes if someone decided that now would be the good time to assassinate their two ambassadors, Steve quietly left the cabin and went to the club car for a breather.

Although it was quiet in the club car, it was bright, and Steve wanted to breathe the crisp night air. He went to the partially open car (the benefits of travelling while wealthy) with rails and a roof but only walls across part of it, and leaned up against one of the rails, trusting it to hold his weight if it was to save someone from falling. The train was going fast, but not anything more than what could be enjoyed in the open wind. A bit farther down the rail, Steve spied another person, and realized that he wasn’t alone. In the darkness and silence of the open car, the person respected his solitude and didn’t attempt conversation, so Steve didn’t mind.

The lack of conversation started to actually bother him a bit, and the person—so silent and unmoving that they almost seemed statuesque—haunted Steve in an indirect manner. He kept stealing glances over at them, more than was polite, but he couldn’t stop himself, and he was almost sure they weren’t watching. They were male, Steve was nearly positive, and somewhere between twenty and fifty, with baggy clothes and shaggy long brunet hair, but that was all he could distinguish from their silhouette in the darkness.

He almost said something once or twice, but never quite got to opening his mouth, just wanting to say anything to break the silence. He didn’t have the courage to actually say something so startling as anything at all, or demure as “lovely night, isn’t it”, but every time he decided not to speak, his mind pleaded him to. He stood in conflict for about a half hour, before the other person spoke.

Steve was so nervous to speak himself, he almost hadn’t realised that it wasn’t his own head shouting at him to speak that had said something aloud. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, what?” he immediately chastised himself, not sounding half as clever as he’d hoped his opening sentence would be. Apparently even being a ninety year old superhero didn’t cure crippling social anxiety (a thing that he’d been both very pleased and saddened to discover was a thing… if there was one thing about the twenty-first century that was better than the twentieth, it would be the emphasis on mental health).

“I know you,” the man replied, with a voice that Steve knew very, very well.

 

\--

 _What the hell,_ he figured. He’d followed Steve all this way, he might as well confront him now. Besides, Steve had happened to come out to the same car that he had, and at the same time. What was more of a sign than that?

He’d sensed the tension rising off Steve, in a familiar way, like he’d been trained to recognise every emotion of the other man. He could read people extremely well; it had been something that was necessary with HYDRA, but this was different. He could sense this man’s emotions in a more intimate way, like he would prepare his every response based off of how Steve felt. What an amazingly intricate a relationship that could be, to base yourself entirely off someone else. He felt that Steve was certainly a person that one could do that with; so happy and full of life that anyone could easily work off that and feed off him, like an energy to amplify their own personality.

The man had been so deep in his thought that the first time he’d said _I know you_ had been replied with silence, and then an awkward apology. When he’d said it the second time, he saw the recognition in the man’s eyes and knew that there had been no mistakes made about knowing him, and there could be no taking back the statement now.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered.

There! That name. He’d forgotten it, when HYDRA had wiped his mind, but that single world brought back more memories than a whole two months of stalking Steve could ever do. “You called me that before,” he said quietly.

“What… what do you remember?” Steve said carefully, with a fear and certain fragility in his voice, like he’d break if Bucky didn’t remember him.

“Not much,” Bucky admitted (and yes, calling himself Bucky fit. The name felt right, and it brought back things… so many things. His first name was James, but he could never get used to being called that. A few people had, but nearly everyone called him Bucky. And one person, one special person that had the singular power of making Bucky’s knees weak called him Buck.).

Steve swallowed, walking a little closer to Bucky, taking just a few tentative steps (which, okay, yes, to be perfectly fair, the last time they’d met, Bucky’d tried to take his head off, so sure, that was understandable). “I watched you die, Buck.”

And Christ, there it was, that one syllable that brought back cold winter days when both of them were still in puberty and Steve’s voice had deepened first, and he’d started calling him _Buck_ , and all those hormones got so confused and Bucky’s adolescent desires had been directed at that skinny little man.

Bucky eyed Steve, who was certainly not a skinny little man. His memory had brought back a few spotty moments throughout their timeline, but he couldn’t quite make the connection of how his best friend during that time had apparently turned into the man before him. In fact, he was quite certain that they’d grown up during the Great Depression… yet here they were, seventy-five years later, both looking about twenty-six.

Bucky began to speak, then shut his mouth again. This was about the longest conversation he’d had on his own terms, and he was unsure how to respond to something with that much weight to it. Fortunately, Steve continued. “We were on a plane, do you remember that? In 1943. There were bombs on it and we had to get out. I jumped, but you caught your arm—“ Steve gestured down to Bucky’s metal appendage “—in the door, somehow. The plane exploded with you pinned to it.”

Bucky checked how those facts lined up with what he knew. His first mission had been in… God, it was so long ago. The clarity of being in control of his own mind had allowed him to remember more about his other missions. His first had been in October, 1943. He’d never had anything in his head expect for what HYDRA put there, so it was fully possible that he could’ve had another life before they got him (and he still didn’t quite know how that happened). The museum had told him something along the same lines, but he just couldn’t feel it, the words neatly typed out on the exhibit.

But hearing it from Steve woke up just the tiniest fragment of something in him. Not a memory, but belief. And just maybe something like trust.

Just then, he heard a sound like gunfire and remembered the reason why Steve was on the train in the first place. “The ambassadors,” he gasped.

 

\--

And yes, of course, Steve realised, whoever was attacking the ambassadors would clearly choose their moment at the same coincidental moment that he’d stepped out of the car.

He raced toward the direction of the gunshots, Bucky right next to him, and as he ran into the car where their private room was, he could see the evidence of bullet holes in one wall and a bit of smoke. Bucky burst into the room first, kicking down the heavy locked door. Steve quickly followed, but the ambassadors weren’t there, of course. Just some poor tied up stewardess.

“Which way did they go?” Bucky asked roughly after he’d taken out her mouth gag (and Steve couldn’t say that he wasn’t grateful to the way that Bucky was both helping out and taking command of the situation, like there’d been no other choice in his mind but to help).

“ _Je ne parle pas l’anglais_ …” the poor thing stuttered out between sobs.

“ _Où sont-ils allés_?” Bucky asked her in perfect French.

“ _Sur le toit_ ,” she responded.

Steve looked to Bucky for translation, and he pointed to a service ladder leading to the roof of the car. Bucky climbed up the ladder first, and Steve quickly after him ( _Stop checking out his ass, Steve, this is no time to be thinking thoughts like that, you have a duty that you abandoned)_. On top of one car, about two down, are a few figures in black clothing and ski masks trying to maintain balance and holding the two ambassadors with guns pointed at their backs. At first Steve wondered what they were just standing around for, then they turned a corner and a tree sped away to reveal a helicopter coming in to pick them up.

Bucky was already running off in their direction. Steve was glad he had his shield on him—he was wearing a thin layer of civilian clothes over his usual costume, just to not stick out so much (although Ryder _insisted_ that he always wear the patriot albeit skin tight thing underneath). He pulled out the shield and flung it toward the helicopter, easily taking out one of the propellers while Bucky took care of the kidnappers. The conflict was far from over, though—the helicopter spun and twisted oddly, jerking forward onto the front car of the train in a small explosion. Steve ran to it, assuming that Bucky could take care of the kidnappers, and saw that the entire front steering to the train had been taken out. The train began to pick up speed, tearing past a station and screeching across the branch of a “Y” that hadn’t been marked for their route.

Ahead, Steve could see a large river, and a bridge. Except the bridge was out, because of course. The train shot past several signs that read “END OF THE LINE” and “TRACK CLOSED”.

“Hell, no,” he muttered to himself, running for the front car. “Not this time.” He jumped through the flaming hulk on top and dislodged his shield, swinging it onto the clip on his back. Landing on the melted metal floor of the car, he looked for the emergency brake and pulled it. At first, it did nothing, the mechanism catching, having melted and soldered to the base of the lever. Steve wrenched it harder and it broke in his hand. He looked out the window to see how much time he had before the line ran out, and he saw that the train was already on the bridge, racing toward the large pit. Steve gripped the broken lever and pulled as hard as he possibly could, harder than he’d ever pulled before. The lever cracked and groaned, finally catching on the brake line and slowing the train gradually. Steve could tell that they still wouldn’t stop before they hit the gap, momentum dragging them forward. He ran back to the second car, a service car (which was empty, all the workers having run to another place when the helicopter hit), and then left that one, pausing between the second and third cars, severing the frame locking them together with his shield. The front pulled apart from the back, continuing forward and diving into the chasm of the river. Still going too fast, Steve wrapped his legs around one of the supporting joints and leaned backward to the wheel, wedging his shield between the track and where it held. Sparks flew and the entire rail groaned, friction slowing just a bit against the structural vibranium. But the train still went forward. Slowly, but still on its path for death. Steve needed to get closer to the wheel, shove in his shield deeper. He leaned down as far as he could, and felt his legs and boots slipping off the post—

Suddenly, strong arms gripped him. He looked up to see Bucky’s face, long hair whipping in his eyes. He nodded a quick thanks, and hoisted the shield up, driving it straight down into the rail before the wheel. The rail snapped and spikes broke, but the wheel of the train stopped dead against the shield. Steve grunted and screamed out with the pressure on his arms, holding his position, and his shield snapped in half, right down the middle. Bucky held out a hand and Steve let go of the shield, letting himself be lifted up by the other.

 

\--

Bucky had stopped the kidnappers while Steve took care of the helicopter, like he knew he would. They were tied up in a broom closet with workers guarding the door, and the two ambassadors were regaining their nerves in a club car. Someone had called the police on their cell and they showed up about ten minutes later, before the news started to arrive. Once Steve made sure that the ambassadors would be taken care of and still reach their destination, he allowed the police to take him and Bucky to the station to get the facts straight. He wasn’t sure about taking Bucky, but when he’d looked at him, before he’d even gotten a chance to ask, he was greeted with a curt nod, and Bucky spoke directly to the officer, saying that he wouldn’t mind. When they reached the station, an officer tried to lead Bucky to a different room than where Steve would be. A small panic had lit his eyes, and Steve had stated adamantly that they stayed together. He was a little pleased, if not confused about the fact that Bucky would trust someone from a past life that he hardly knew more than the authorities, but knew that if Bucky wanted to stay with Steve, that was exactly what was going to happen. The officer in charge of him wasn’t too happy with that, but the usual “Son, do you know who the fuck I am? I am Captain America” quickly calmed him down.

Although they’d gladly gone over the details of the events with the police, Bucky absolutely refused to be on television, and Steve didn’t blame him. What he wanted to do was go back home right away, but Bucky seemed a little defensive, having been swamped by so many people, so Steve booked two rooms at a nearby hotel after asking Bucky if he’d like to spend the night.

Steve sat on the bed, head still reeling a little. He still had a fresh blush on his cheeks from the whole “You saved all those lives! You’re an American hero!” business, and he unpacked what little he brought with him, placing the two parts of his broken shield on top of the dresser.

It was seven am, and not really knowing what else to do, Steve knocked on the little separator door between the closets of his and Bucky’s rooms. After a minute, the door snapped open, and Steve was presented with Bucky, who was wearing the same clothes that he’d been wearing all night. His expression was still a little shell-shocked, Steve thought.

He smiled as warmly as he could, trying to ease the atmosphere. “I was wondering if you wanted to go down for breakfast with me.”

Bucky nodded. “I could do that.”

Steve stepped back, expecting him to shut the door and be back out in a second more, after he’d changed, but Bucky just stood there. “Don’t you want to unpack, or…” Steve said, not wanting to say “change” or “clean up” and sound rude.

Bucky shrugged. “Don’t have other clothes.”

“Oh, well…” Steve went over to his bag and fished out a nice pair of jeans and a clean black t-shirt. “You can use these, if you like.”

Bucky held eye contact for a moment before taking the clothes and shutting the little door. Steve stood back for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then the little door snapped open again and Bucky stood awkwardly in the threshold.

Without his baggy, concealing clothes, Steve could see more of exactly what his oldest friend had been up to. Steve had thought about Bucky so frequently since that day on the bridge, picturing how he’d looked in his mind, _worrying_ about him and what had happened, especially since he’d disappeared. But to Steve’s great joy, Bucky looked well. He looked more cleaned up and clearer (although his eyes still looked confused, like he wanted to recognise him but couldn’t quite), and most important of all… he looked well-fed. He hadn’t been skinny, exactly, on the bridge, but he’d certainly been leaner than Steve had known him to be in New York or in Africa. Seeing Bucky a little… well, to be honest, a little pudgy, made Steve feel that the minimal care that HYDRA must have been giving him had been superseded. It meant that Bucky was taking care of himself, maybe even having food he enjoyed. Steve had sort of had this notion that Bucky would escape and shell up in some alley, homeless, starving and afraid. The Bucky he saw was just the tiniest bit confident in his abilities (or, at least enough to navigate the twenty-first century alone) and seemingly wore the effects of enjoying good food. Where Steve’s jeans hugged Bucky’s waistline, he could even see the tiniest pooch, rounding out and pressing the tiniest bit against the dark fabric of the untucked t-shirt.

“Ready?” Bucky said, snapping Steve from his thoughts.

“Right, yeah.” He walked to his door, not needing to change his own clothes, since he’d peeled out of the Captain America uniform the second they’d reached the hotel, taken an extremely hot shower, and got into fresh new clothes. He held the door open for Bucky, and he set a leisurely pace that didn’t even seem forced, ambling down to the cafeteria. The easy pace doesn’t match Steve’s heartbeat, getting too excited just at the thought of seeing just how big of meals Bucky’d been ordering to gain weight like that.

Steve wanted to slap himself, thinking thoughts like that. He didn’t understand them in New York. He didn’t have much time for them in Africa (although he remembers something about dinner and giving Bucky his beans). And now? He’d done a little bit of research on the wonderful thing called the internet with the even more wonderful thing called “Incognito Mode”, and discovered Rule 34, and fetishes, and kinks, and, well. He’d identified what he was, although he despised the name, and would probably die if Bucky ever found out (although his fantastical scenarios all revolved around Bucky finding out and not quite minding, which yes, goddammit, if he was being honest, fantastical and erotic scenarios involving Bucky eating or gaining weight had become all too often of an occurrence).

Chubby chaser.

It whispers through his brain, almost a hiss, almost shameful, almost chiding. Like he could hear those saints tutting at him every time he opened an incognito tab and searched up kink porn. Just thinking about some of the things he’d seen, he felt an erection bloom in his pants. Hands in his pockets, he tried to shove at his hard-on with the heel of his palm, shifting his walk just slightly, hoping Bucky wouldn’t notice. He knew he had to make conversation, so his mind wouldn’t just wander. Except, for the life of him, he couldn’t think of a fucking word to say.

Bucky could always sense his tension like that. He was always responding to his silence in the most considerate way. “So, tell me more about who I was before…” he didn’t finish.

Steve was a little caught off guard. “You really want to know?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.” They turned the last corner and he held the door open for Steve, and they found a table. The cafeteria had been modelled to look like a typical restaurant diner—such a sweet, generic American diner that it could have been any American diner. Even the one near the apartment that they used to share in New York.

So Steve told him. He started out slowly, pausing when they ordered (and stuttering a little at the sheer size of what Bucky had ordered), covering how they’d met, their friendship after Steve’s mother had died (glossing over everything slightly non-platonic, of course), up to when Bucky’d been drafted, and how Steve had been turned into a supersoldier, and how they’d met again in the war, ending on a sombre (if somewhat distracted note, seeing as how Steve was having trouble focusing on the story when all he wanted to look at was forkful after forkful of food disappearing into Bucky’s beautiful mouth) note of the mission to the HYDRA base. At the retelling of how they’d secretly orchestrated everything and how Bucky had originally been against them, he stiffened, and Steve almost didn’t want to continue, but Bucky would give small, reassuring responses to what he said every now and then (although, they could have just as well been responses to how good the food was that he was having, grunts or small moans of appreciation at the flavour), even mentioning briefly that he’d never really known how he came to be the Winter Soldier. There was about a five month block between Bucky’s “death” and his first mission that neither of them could fill in.

Near the end of their conversation, Bucky was ending his meal, and Steve could hardly concentrate on anything at all, his own small breakfast lying half untouched. His raging boner was concealed below the low booth thankfully, but he was having trouble dragging his eyes away from how his shirt ( _his_ shirt on Bucky) clung to Bucky’s middle even more when he’d eaten as much as he had. With one of his last contextual thoughts, he looked Bucky in the eyes—a little surprised with all the vulnerability and the pain that the topic of HYDRA had brought up, not surprised at the pain, but surprised that it would be visible, although he supposed that food softened more than just Bucky’s waistline—and made him yet another promise.

“Bucky, I swear to you, we’re going to find out what happened to you. And we’re gonna make them pay. Once we get settled in back home, we’ll take a nice break, and then we’ll go find HYDRA and kill the last of them. I mean it. We’re going to finish what we started seventy years ago, and really crush Strucker.”

Bucky’s eyes even started to tear the slightest as he finished his drink and set it down, stacking his several plates on top of each other to make it easier for the waitress to carry. “That means the world to me, Steve.”

_Bucky’d called him Steve._

Not like he hadn’t before; he just hadn’t really called him anything. But he called him his name. It wasn’t recognition, but it was something.

 

\--

Steve paid (after a little arguing on Bucky’s part) and then they slowly went back to their room, Bucky walking just the tiniest bit slower than he had on the way down, trying not to obvious about the clear fact that he’d eaten more than was comfortable. Steve walked different, too, trying to quell his prominent hard-on.

Just as they reached Steve’s room, Bucky stood behind him (and Steve realised that they’d left that way, so Bucky would have to go back to his room through Steve’s), and Steve moved to turn the knob but Bucky’s flesh hand on Steve’s right wrist stopped him. He turned toward Bucky slightly, and realised how close he was standing. Bucky stepped just the tiniest bit closer, pinning Steve up against the door softly with his body, and Steve could feel the wonderful and perfect mix of tightness and softness that was Bucky’s full belly. Steve’s blush and boner both reached peak embarrassment, and Bucky caught Steve’s chin with his metal hand, leaning over, and ever so softly brushed his lips up against Steve’s, not even a real kiss, just the softest of touches. Their foreheads touched and Bucky looked down. Steve was having trouble breathing, and it reminded him in a funny way of all those asthmatic attacks he used to have pre-serum.

“Did we ever do that… before?” Bucky asked quietly, a whisper that was so close to Steve’s lips that he could feel his breath. Steve nodded, forehead moving slightly. “Thought so,” Bucky responded. “I knew you left something out of our history together.” Before Steve could move in for a second kiss—and oh, God, did he want to—Bucky pulled away, and Steve’s forehead felt suddenly cold. He released his wrist, and Steve took the hint, opening the door. Bucky went in and sat on the bed, not giving off any signs of wanting to continue what he’d started.

“I… um…” Steve stuttered, gesturing vaguely at the bathroom. Bucky nodded, and Steve decided on taking a second shower for the day, although a decidedly colder one. The sound of the faucet also helped to cover up his own gasps as he quietly jerked himself off.

Once he was done, he wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door of the bathroom to see Bucky asleep in Steve’s bed, curled up in the covers in the foetal position, looking like the world’s cuddliest assassin. Steve wanted to slip in next to him and just go back to sleep, forget the past few decades or whatever and just sleep next to each other like they used to.

 _This isn’t Brooklyn,_ Steve reminded himself, and shit, he knew. He knew it ain’t the 19 th century anymore, either.

But he wanted Bucky. He wanted to take care of him. Not just for recognition of an old friend or what they had in the past. He wanted to help Bucky here, now.

He meant what he’d said to Bucky about destroying HYDRA. They’d stamp out the rest of what Strucker had started, really kill it, and Steve wouldn’t play superhero anymore. It was too dangerous, and he doubted that even with his talents, Bucky probably wouldn’t want to play superhero either. Sure, Steve would be a celebrity and a diplomat and he’d smile for the cameras and go to meetings, but boring stuff strictly. His days of shield-tossing were over.

 _Literally_ , he added ironically as he eyed his shield broken in two on the dresser.

He hadn’t been ready to contemplate what having Bucky back in his life would mean yet. He wouldn’t know the direction they’d go. When they’d parted the last time, they’d almost certainly had something starting. Hell, they’d done enough to constitute a relationship, if Bucky wanted one… Steve was sure he did, but the signals from Bucky had been mixed as ever.

But Steve wanted Bucky in his life now. He didn’t want to let him out of his sight for one more second. He’d lost him twice already, and he wouldn’t a second time. No fucking way. Steve made up his mind and crawled into the bed, softly spooning Bucky, even risking putting his arm around the other’s plump belly. And when Bucky woke, he’d ask him to come back to DC and live with him. Not as boyfriends, or lovers, or anything quite so progressive as that. Steve just did not want to let Bucky out of his sight again, ever.

Feeling Bucky breathe, he softly fell asleep.

 

\--

Bucky woke up and blinked softly, having turned around in Steve’s arms, face to face. Steve had an eyelash on his cheek, and Bucky softly brushed it off with the thumb of his left hand… which was metal.

He cried out and jumped out of bed. Immediately, Steve woke, and sat up. “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

“My arm!” Bucky exclaimed. He saw the look of confusion on Steve’s face and held his left arm out to see. “Can you not see this? It’s metal! My arm… my arm is metal! Oh, God—“ he exclaimed, clutching his head and falling to the ground.

Steve rushed over to him, holding him on the ground. “Are you okay? Bucky? Bucky?”

Bucky suddenly realised something, and his eyes shot wide and afraid, looking right into Steve’s. “Stevie, I don’t know what year it is…”

“It’s 2013,” Steve replied softly. “Bucky, do you know who I am?”

Bucky snorted. “Of course, Pal, you’re—“ A feeling like a brick wall hit him. “Did you say… 2013?”

Steve nodded.

“You’re not pulling my leg, are ya, pal?”

Steve blinked. “You mean, you don’t remember the last sixty years? You don’t remember being the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky’s head _hurt,_ hurt more than he could think through. A couple words, like fragments of glass being dropped down a tunnel, reached Bucky’s mind, but they held no meaning. The world began to spin and Steve’s beautiful blue eyes blurred as he passed out, or vomited, or both. He tried to warn Steve, but unintelligible syllables poured from his mouth before it all went black.

 

\--

Steve clutched helplessly at Bucky, so unused to the situation to know what to do. He’d felt a panicking sort of need to take control and make everything right, but he couldn’t make Bucky calm down, and he didn’t know if he should take him to the hospital or just keep him in bed. He’d had an idea that Bucky’s memory might be spotty, remembering some things some days and nothing others, but a complete relapse to pre-HYDRA Bucky had been more than he could handle. Still, there was the desire to handle it anyway, and keep Bucky safe.

When Bucky’s eyes opened again, Steve was too nervous and upset to determine what secrets they held, and he asked for the second time, more softly, “Buck, do you know who I am?”

Bucky nodded, slowly. “Yes. Why am I on the floor?”

Steve helped him up and explained that he seemed to have a memory relapse, but carefully. He didn’t want to freak Bucky out, or let on how freaked out he was. Bucky took it calmly, in the same placid way he took everything else. The instability of his mental condition actually did the opposite of frightening Steve away; he was frightened, but he was only thinking of how much more frightened Bucky must be, and how much he wanted to take care of him, have him by his side all the time, and really never let him out of his sight. “Come back with me. You have to— please.” He hoped that he could convince Bucky to say yes with the desperation in his voice and the pleading in his eyes, knowing that pride wouldn’t allow Bucky to be ‘taken care of’ like some old man with Alzheimer’s… or would he? Would he just be glad in the opportunity to not be alone?

Steve realised that he didn’t know. Either idea seemed possible. Steve simply did not know who Bucky was anymore.

So it was as much a surprise to him as it seemed to be to Bucky, even as he spoke it, when he said, “Okay, Stevie.”

They checked out of the hotel and went back home to Steve’s apartment that afternoon, arriving the next morning. Bucky had gone to his apartment and gotten his few things (and Steve couldn’t help but notice how strategically close to his own it was, windows even facing each other, just across the street, and he understood a little more exactly why Bucky had been on that train), explained his situation to the landlord, and officially moved in with Steve.

Steve’s heart was going so fast he could feel it beat in his ears, and he tried not to get his hopes up of something more than platonic occurring. Still, every time he saw Bucky still wearing his clothes, adjusting to Steve’s lifestyle, but maintaining his own (glorious) eating habits, Steve’s heart flew.

They talked a few times about how they would defeat HYDRA, like it was a definite event in the future, but as a future event, not really planning. Bucky wanted to settle in more, and Steve certainly didn’t mind him settling. The first night was perhaps the most awkward, Steve wanting to share the bed with Bucky, but not quite knowing how to say it. Once again, he was presently surprised at the warmness (and even familiarity) in Bucky’s voice when he’d offered to take the couch, and Bucky softly replied, “Well hell, there’s enough room in your bed for two, Stevie.”

After a week, they settled into a nice, tidy routine of things they both enjoyed doing, and after the second day when Ryder’s men had barged in and tried to attack Bucky because they thought he was an intruder in Steve’s apartment (and to be sure, Steve had only managed to get Bucky to not fight them and explain to both parties that the other was not a threat after Bucky had knocked out two of the men and broken another’s arm), he explained the situation to Ryder, complicated as it was, and they were left mostly alone.

And even sometimes, after the first week, when Bucky had convinced Steve that he was capable, Bucky was left alone. Steve went out to the gym several times a week and got called in for meetings or had to handle situations every now and then, nothing too time consuming or serious, and Bucky had made it clear that he was fine to be left alone in the apartment, watching telly and snacking on crisps. The domesticity suited Bucky well, and he calmed immensely, seeming less tense and on guard all of the time, although Steve was sure that the soldier inside his friend was ready to come out at any sign of trouble. There had only been one incident again with Bucky’s memory, where he’d woken up in the middle of the night shouting Russian and trying to escape. Steve had calmed him down by holding him and shushing him gently, like a child, and it had worked, and after a few minutes, Bucky had blinked up at him and called his name, then had apologised so sincerely that it made Steve’s heart hurt. But Bucky had improved enormously.

He looked more solid. In more ways than one. His new, assertive attitude drew just the tiniest bit more attention to his body (and he got plenty of looks in public, from both men and women, that shouldn’t have made Steve’s heart twinge with jealousy but did, although Bucky made it clear he wasn’t pursuing anyone for dates), and the new weight on him that had been… added to? since the train.

And when Steve left Bucky alone, sometimes he would come back and could tell that Bucky’d treated himself to a feast, empty boxes of Chinese takeout delivered to their room (Steve had explained how that worked, and given him full access to his credit cards), or empty boxes of pizza, or sometimes, both. It became a regular occurrence, almost like Bucky planned bingeing out around when he knew that Steve wouldn’t be home (not like Bucky didn’t eat when Steve was home), like his scheduled appointments to the gym. And yeah, that got Steve hot sometimes, while he was working out, knowing that Bucky was at home, sitting on his couch and watching telly, stuffing himself with all sorts of food that he’d try to hide the evidence of later, and Steve would pretend not to notice.

The parallel issues of his attraction to Bucky and his specific attraction to Bucky’s eating habits (especially their effects) were rising to some sort of climax, and Steve was getting worried that he wouldn’t be able to control himself. Bucky’s hypothetic response scared him most of all. Once upon a time, he would have known how Bucky would respond to any sort of romantic move on Steve’s part. Now? He was just too frightened to try anything.

 

\--

Bucky liked his gut (even though he was pretty sure that the cultural thing was to look… basically, like Steve) for three reasons: one, it made him feel grounded. Solid. Two, it reminded him that his body wasn’t a weapon anymore, and the weight was the result of pleasure for the sake of pleasure. And three, all the strange attention it had been eliciting from Steve.

He wasn’t fat, not really, and his slight chubbiness was balanced out by his muscles, making him just a bit thick and beefy. It wasn’t anything that meant he wouldn’t get hit on whenever they went out, which, regretfully, he was. He had no wish to return the flirting to male or female, or even to have a one night stand with anyone. Any time he would engage in any sexual activities with himself (which he did fairly often, while Steve was gone, often the result of boredom, or, strangely, the sensation of just how much food he routinely consumed), his mind was drawn back to several intimate moments with Steve. He was nearly certain that Steve had some sort of attraction for him. He recognised the desire on his face, the barely masked arousal, his glances all over his body (often focused on his middle) when he thought Bucky wasn’t looking. And in an age of instant gratification and living in the moment, Bucky had no fucking clue why Steve wasn’t just going for it. So, after a little thought, he decided to push the boundaries of eroticism and see exactly how much it would take to get Steve to act. In an experimental way, of course.

He’d been ordering more and more recently (which was saying something, seeing as his appetite was already quite substantial), seeing how much it would take for Steve to cave. He knew Steve knew. He knew he noticed all the food. He saw the empty boxes, saw the effects, even paid the bill for all the food he was eating (and Steve had made it clear that he didn’t mind, that he wanted to take care of Bucky and let him enjoy himself, since his job made him quite well off), but when Steve’s ridiculous self-control wasn’t allowing him to do anything more than stare at Bucky’s gut with face reddening, or grope him sometimes “accidentally” in bed, Bucky decided that he had to take more… carnal actions.

So it couldn’t have worked out more perfectly when one night, Steve came home from the gym early.

Bucky was lethargically spread out on the couch, watching some crime drama on telly and finishing what was left of a half-dozen box of doughnuts, grey sweatpants shoved down _under_ the curve of his gut (and yeah, his stomach was so large and distended that there was actually an underside now), shirt ridden up right over his belly button. Even though part of him had hoped that eventually Steve would catch him in the act, he still froze when Steve walked through the door, doughnut halfway to his mouth. Steve’s eyes slid over him, lingering on Bucky’s painful bloated stomach, and Bucky watched his cheeks heat as he swallowed and said “Hey,” failing at keeping his voice even.

“Hey,” Bucky responded coolly, trying to tug his shirt down to no avail.

“Whatcha watchin’?” Steve asked, coming over and joining him on the couch after Bucky swung his legs off the other cushion, letting out a small grunt as his belly protested the movement.

“Dunno,” He replied, handing Steve the remote in case he wanted to change the channel. He moved the doughnut to his mouth, taking just a little too large of a bite, and moaning a little in pleasure.

“Good… ah, good doughnuts?” Steve asked. Bucky could already tell he was flustered.

“Oh, yeah. I could eat a hundred of these,” he responded. He finished the one in his hand, and reached over to the last in the box, before changing his mind and dropping it to his stomach, where his metal one was massing his swollen belly tenderly. “Ugh, I don’t think I can finish them, though. So full,” he muttered, which was untrue. Not the part about him being full; he was stuffed to the brim. But yeah, he could have another. Probably two more, if he wanted to push it. But he wanted _Steve_ to say that he wanted him to have another.

“You’re, uh…” he swallowed “Not gonna finish those?” Steve asked shakily.

“Nah,” Bucky said, patting the side of his stomach (Jesus, it had sides now). “Don’t you think I’ve had enough?”

Steve’s eyes turned glassy, and his breath caught in his throat, just enough for it to be audible. “Well, when you ordered those, you must’ve thought that you could have all six,” he said weakly.

“And two milkshakes, and a bag of barbecue crisps,” Bucky added.

“I… what?”

Bucky pointed to the two glasses and the empty bag on the table in front of them. “Had those, too. Could probably eat six doughnuts, by themselves, but not with all that.”

Steve looked so desperate and pained that Bucky almost wanted to quit it. “Nah, I’m sure you could have just one last doughnut,” he breathed, nearly pleading.

Bucky waited for Steve’s eyes to drag from his stomach up to meet his own gaze into Steve’s perfect blue eyes, then responded. “Do you want me to have the last doughnut?” he asked softly, finally dropping the question that he couldn’t return from.

“Um… do… do you want it, Buck?” Steve’s eyes had sneaked back down to Bucky’s middle again.

“Steve.” His eyes shot up to Bucky’s once more, gaze always ping-ponging between his eyes and his gut. “Do you want me to have the doughnut?”

Steve made a sound between a grunt and a whine, face screwing up painfully.

“Steve, it’s okay,” Bucky said softly. Damn Steve and his self-control.

“Yes,” Steve said finally, breathlessly.

Bucky held eye contact and plucked the last doughnut from the box, a jelly-filled, and took a large bite, enjoying the powdered sugar smudging his lips. He finished it in six whole bites, and groaned. Now his stomach really _did_ hurt.

“Th-that looks painful,” Steve stuttered. Bucky grunted in response. “C-can… um, could I…” Steve started, unable to focus on anything other than Bucky’s rounded out belly.

“It’s okay, Steve,” Bucky soothed again.

“Can I touch it?” he asked, and nearly before he finished, his large hands were on Bucky’s gut, long fingers digging into the sides, testing the weight and give of the entire globe. Bucky moaned, letting his head fall back onto the couch. Steve inched closer, sitting right between Bucky’s thighs, pressing his hands all over the contrasting soft and tightness of Bucky’s waist. “Oh, god,” he breathed, finally unable to contain all the thoughts within him that had been locked inside forever. “You’re so… so fucking _beautiful_ , Buck, I can’t help it, I can’t stop myself anymore, can’t—can’t—“ he whined in exasperation. Bucky lifted his metal arm and found Steve’s head, softly running his bionic fingers through Steve’s blond hair, soothing him. “You’re so round and _big_ baby, I love it, I love how thick you’ve gotten. Shit, even your thighs have plumped out, and your ass is even more luscious than it was fifty years ago.” Bucky responded to both the touch and the sweet talk, letting Steve know exactly how okay he was with all of this, how very okay it was for Steve to notice and talk about his weight. “I just get so _hard_ whenever you eat, which is like all the time, shit, you eat so much, and I know it’s wrong, but I just wanna… just wanna…” he stopped, unable to continue.

Bucky shifted and sat up, just the tiniest bit, because suddenly just Steve’s hands on his belly and body kneeling between his heavy thighs wasn’t enough contact. He wanted Steve to touch him, touch _all_ of him. He pulled Steve over him, and with a gasp Steve steadied himself on the arm and back of the couch. Bucky lay down, stretching his legs out and spreading them, let Steve lay between them and over him. “Fuck, I gotta get these off,” he said, pawing at the waistline of his painful sweats, cutting into his soft flesh and making his love handles look bigger than they really were. Steve wet his lips and looked down, helping Bucky shuck off his pants, displaying Bucky’s erection in his white boxers. Bucky took his shirt off next, putting Steve’s hands back on his packed tummy. “Go on.”

Instead, Steve leaned over to him, and softly kissed him on the mouth. Bucky deepened the kiss, tired of being nice, slipping his tongue into Steve’s mouth and licking around. Steve kissed back passionately, own tongue flicking around Bucky’s mouth, hands still groping at Bucky’s soft sides as he let his full weight rest on Bucky. “Don’t—want—to hurt—you,” he rasped out in between kisses, patting the side of Bucky’s full belly.

“You’re fine,” Bucky responded, barely able to think through the white-hot feeling of having Steve’s erection press up against him. Steve pulled away from his mouth and kissed his neck, the softness there under the stubble, his slight double chin. He moved down to his chest, his still muscular but now soft and rounded out pecs, and down once again to his gloriously large belly. “Fuck,” groaned Bucky. “I want you in me Stevie, I want… want you in me.”

Steve snapped his eyes up to Bucky for a moment, surprised. “Shit, alright,” he replied, taking his own work shorts and boxers off. Bucky enjoyed the sight of his beautiful cock for a moment, rock-hard and already dripping with pre-come. Bucky smirked and lifted his hips, sliding his own boxers off and bending his knees. Steve spread the pre-come around his tip, trying to lube himself up. Bucky had a different idea, however, and let himself come, already ridiculously turned on by what they’d already done. He caught his seed in his hand, spreading it over Steve’s cock. “Fuck,” Steve breathed, and Bucky didn’t even have time to be embarrassed about already orgasming before Steve lined himself up and began to push his head into Bucky’s tight hole (which had just been stretched out under two hours ago).

Bucky groaned, eyes shooting open as he bucked upward, full belly pressing harder into Steve. “Fuck, Stevie, so, so good…” he moaned.

“Buck, I’ve been… been wanting to do this since fucking Africa—ah!” he cried, sliding himself further inside Bucky.

“Go in the whole way… want you to fill me, baby, want you to fill me up good,” Bucky moaned, and Steve complied, shoving the full length of his cock into Bucky’s anus, up to his balls. “Yes! Oh, god, Stevie, fuck, yes,” Bucky yelped, putting both hands in Steve’s hair, tugging gently at the short locks.

“Gonna… gonna come soon,” Steve warned, face reddening with effort.

“Go ahead, don’t stop,” Bucky panted shakily, and Steve did, coming inside him and collapsing against his lover. They breathed hard for a moment, and then Steve pulled out gently, flaccid and epically satisfied. He tweaked Bucky’s own already hard again erection, kissing him on the mouth and petting his belly.

“God, you’re so beautiful Bucky, so fucking beautiful. I imagined you, pictured you like this, what you looked like under those clothes, full and so fucking chubby—“ his face reddened and his expression fell, just the tiniest bit. “Shit, is that okay? I mean, the—“

Bucky cut him off, pulling him in for another kiss. “Hell yes, it’s okay. I knew you were into it,” he commented wryly, slapping the side of his overfull gut. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for seventy fucking years,” he chuckled.

“Well, it certainly paid off. I always knew waiting for you would be worth it. You’re so amazing, Bucky, so wonderful… I want to kiss you every day, want to fuck you right, because I love you, I want to see you happy, and you look so good like this, so full and round and really happy, Buck. I love you. I really do. I never want to see you unhappy again.”

Bucky kissed him again. He always knew Steve would be such a sappy shit. “Wait, did you say you waited for me?”

Steve nodded a little. “You’re the only one I love, Buck. I always have.”

“Wait, you mean, you were a virgin?”

“…Yeah… is that a problem?”

“No!” Bucky smirked. He should have known, really. “I love you too. Jesus Christ, a ninety-three year old virgin.”

Steve laughed. “Shut up. Wait… did you just say you loved me?”

Bucky gave a contented sigh, putting his arms behind his head. “Well, yeah. Did you not expect me to say it back, Sweetheart?”

“’Sweetheart’?” Steve repeated indignantly.

“Of course! What else would I call you? You’re all ‘Oh, Buck, you’re so fucking beautiful, I love you so much, I’m a virgin and I cry during sex’,” he teased gently, doing his best Captain America impression.

Steve grinned and hit him gently on the metal arm, then, taking notice, bent down and kissed the line of scars between Bucky’s flesh shoulder and where the metal jointing began. “I mean it. I love you. You’re so beautiful. I’ve loved you forever, Buck, even before you gained the weight. I don’t just love that, or having sex with you, you gotta know that. I love _you_.”

Bucky chuckled. “Likewise, Sweetheart. My memory’s not great all the time, but sometimes I can catch feelings, real strong ones. And I know for sure that I’ve loved you the whole time I’ve known you, before you became a Beef God.” He laughed. “Now you’ve got me saying that I love you for your soul and not your body, you fucking sap.” He kissed Steve again. He could never have enough of kissing Steve’s pretty lips.

“You love it,” Steve replied, and he was right.

 

\--

The next morning, Bucky woke up, and felt even more grounded in his own body than he ever had before, but in such a way beyond what he’d imagined. He felt so sure of who he was, but he didn’t feel stuck inside his own head anymore. He sighed contentedly, scratching his stomach and feeling the heft of it and the effects of last night’s bingeing. He turned over, eyes still closed, groping for Steve in the large, warm bed, but Steve wasn’t in it. That’s when the scent of bacon reached his tired nose.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his arms, and really contemplating the way his stomach hung over his boxers, gently resting on the tops of his thick thighs. It felt nice, the two warm planes of skin touching, and Bucky thought how he really didn’t mind being big, especially if Steve loved it so much, how he could really get used to playing house with Steve like that.

He left the bedroom and walked out into the kitchen, sitting at one of the barstools on the counter and watching Steve with a smirk on his lips as he rushed back and forth, getting breakfast ready. He chuckled a little as Steve tried to pick up a piece of toast right from the toaster, but burnt his hand and dropped it, tried to catch it, and flung the toast up in the air until it finally landed on the plate.

Steve spun round, face brightening up immediately. “Bucky!” he exclaimed. “How—ah, how’d you sleep?” a blush crept across his face, and Bucky raised one eyebrow in amusement.

“Fine,” he motioned for Steve to come over, and he took his hand, softly kissing Steve’s long fingers where he’d burnt them on the toast.

Steve kneaded Bucky’s soft underbelly, fingers playing in his dark happy trail. “Fuck, you look so _huge_ , baby. Not just huge. Gigantic. Beautiful. I love you.” Steve had this weird mix of sweet and dirty talk, and Bucky could never get enough of it.

“Your eggs are burning,” Bucky commented, and Steve spun around, preparing their two plates. He placed a large dish in front of Bucky, with at least six scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, four pieces of bacon, and a large cup of coffee, done up just the way Bucky loved it. Steve sat next to him on the other stool, and watched expectantly as Bucky took a bite into the eggs. “Christ, these are cheesy!” he exclaimed. “But good,” he added when he saw Steve’s crestfallen expression. He took a bite of the bacon, which was perfect, and squirmed a little under Steve’s unmoving gaze. “Are you gonna eat, or just watch me eat?”

Steve made a little grunt and got to work eating his own, more reasonably sized breakfast, still never taking his eyes off Bucky. As soon as Bucky finished, Steve leaned across his chair and kissed him so, so tenderly, like he thought Bucky might break if he kissed him too hard. “I am never, ever going to lose you again,” he muttered between kisses, nose bumping up against Bucky’s cheek.

“You can plan on that.”

 

\--

Steve glared down at the letter in his hands, an invitation to another charity ball. It had been sent to him through Ryder, like the way he always hijacked his mail, telling him which events he should attend. He squinted at the “ _plus one_ ” on the bottom, and his face broke out in a grin. He ran over to where Bucky was lying on the couch, and sat on his lap, kissing his cheek. They’d been officially together for a little over a month, and Steve had taken him out to his special celebrity events before. The paparazzi and tabloids especially loved the fact that Captain America had a boyfriend, especially a chubby one, and loved making assumptions about their relationship, and taking tonnes of pictures every time they kissed. Bucky was less enthusiastic about attending these events, but Steve knew that he wouldn’t go if he really did mind.

He waved the letter at Bucky, and he plucked it from Steve’s hand with his metal one. “Do you want to go?” he asked Steve in a voice that could undo him without touching him at all.

“Do… you want to go?” Steve countered.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Steve. Do you want me to go?” he asked. He had to do that sometimes, Steve knew, because Steve was never quite sure what was okay to say. He didn’t want to order him around, always careful in the ‘taking orders’ area, but Bucky had explained to him that if he wanted something, he needed to explicitly say it. Steve had gotten better at it: ‘Bucky, I want you to finish that last doughnut’, or ‘I want you to eat this whole pint of ice cream’, and Bucky was always clear with what was pushing the limits, and he never went (too) overboard.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah, Buck. I want to dress you up in a nice suit, want to show off my sexy boyfriend and make everyone jealous while I kiss you on the red carpet.”

Bucky laughed, throwing his head back. “Jesus. Shouldda known you’d make me a trophy wife.”

Steve smirked. “Do you want to go with me later to buy a suit? We could wear matching ties,” he wiggled his eyebrows, knowing he was being overly ridiculous with the couple stuff, but Bucky never seemed to be averse. Deep down, Steve suspected that Bucky liked it.

“I have a suit,” Bucky grumbled. He hated getting tailored suits, Steve knew, but every time they went out, he managed to need the girth of his suit taken out a little, or even gone up a size a few times. The suit that he had had been re-tailored so many times that Steve would much rather him just buy a new one.

“Put it on, then,” Steve said, around a smirk. Bucky met his gaze and gave him a kiss, pushing himself up off the couch.

Steve stayed, watching with detached interest whatever show it was that Bucky had been seeing, something with a lot of girls in a jail, dressed in bright orange or something, and there seemed to be a lot of lesbians. A moment later, Bucky returned, smiling knowingly, and Steve’s jaw dropped.

“How does it look, Stevie?” Bucky teased.

“Uh… Buck, you look… fucking amazing,” Steve whined. Amazing, certainly. Appropriate for public? Sinfully not.

The slacks almost fit, right up until where they were tight around his thighs and crotch, and especially his ass. Steve was sure that if Bucky even tried to sit in them, they’d split right down the middle. They sat too low on his hips, and Steve realised that Bucky probably couldn’t even pull them up over his belly. They emphasised his love handles and pushed out his muffin top more than usual, and Steve pictured Bucky sucking his gut in, trying to button the slacks over his round belly before giving up and hoisting his belly up with his metal hand. The button up shirt was about two sizes too small, buttons gapping and revealing tantalising pockets of flesh that Steve wanted to lick his tongue over. But the jacket was by far the best, a beautiful navy blue that made Bucky’s eyes shine, cut beautifully with sleeves just the perfect length, his metal hand shining under the left sleeve, collar silk and just the tiniest bit outdated, but it looked lovely on Bucky. Or would have, if he weighed about fifteen pounds less. As it was, the three buttons on one side of the opening simply would not meet the holes, and Bucky’d left the jacket open, sides of it framing his wide belly.

Bucky snorted a little. “Maybe I’d better go with you to get a new one.”

 

\--

Bucky grunted as the worker measured his in seam, and would have been much more uncomfortable if Steve hadn’t been sitting in a chair facing him, watching the worker very carefully.

“And what do you weigh?” the worker asked in a casual voice that put him at ease, a little. Bucky was glad at least that he could be professional about it.

“247,” Bucky said, and he could see Steve shift out of the corner of his eye. He looked over at smirked at Steve’s own timid smile. The fruits of their combined efforts, he thought with some amusement.

 

\--

The ball was nice, Steve thought, but not half as nice as when they’d arrived in the flashy limo Steve had rented, and the crowd that had gathered to see Captain America cheered for him to kiss his boyfriend, and a girl had shouted that they gave her confidence to come out to her own parents. Captain America was still fighting a war, that was for sure. He was still an icon, and he still gave people hope. That was enough for him.

There was still the unresolved issue of destroying the last few strands of HYDRA, but Steve wanted to wait until Bucky was ready. He knew the day would come. For now he was content to be half-listening to some other celebrity making conversation, while actually watching Bucky pile cannoli on his plate over at the buffet.

They circulated around the room, being mildly social, but toward the end of the night, when Bucky had had just enough champagne to be a little more affectionate and drop his standards of what public displays of affection should be, they sat at a table and Steve fed him chocolate-covered strawberries, in a way that bordered sexual while still being marginally within the borders of socially acceptable. After all the strawberries had gone, the actual “ball” part of the party began, and Steve stood with a little flourish and offered his hand to Bucky.

“May I have this dance?” he teased.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but said “Absolutely,” with a little more satisfaction than his expression implied.

They danced to the first song, typical classic high-society rubbish, and then Steve put in a request for the big band to play something that mirrored their time a little better. The party slowly escalated into a perfect swing ball that could have been from any nightclub in the 40s, and Steve appreciated not for the first time the twenty-first century’s love for the vintage. Most of the crowd was inexperienced in anything past the jitterbug, but Steve and Bucky had a ‘swell’ old time, doing the East Coast swing, and not really intending to steal the spotlight, but managing anyway.

After a night of dancing and eating and champagne, Bucky let Steve know that he was ready to leave, and they got back in their fancy limo and went home to continue the fun.

One day, four months after they’d began dating, Bucky came up to Steve with a serious expression on his face and nodded. “I’m ready.”

Steve picked up his shield from where it was mounted onto the wall over the couch in the living room. “Do we have a plan?”

“We stick together.”

Steve nodded. “Works for me.”

Then the attack on HYDRA began.

 

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if some of the language seemed out of place. It's hard to balance British slang in narration and old American in dialogue! I really hoped you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's done now, sorry to leave on sort of a cliffhanger, but in my imagination they totally beat HYDRA's ass and then had a proper gay wedding in a year or two, adopted a million babies, and started the "ROGERS AND BARNES ORPHANAGE" and lived to the ripe old age of two hundred. 
> 
> {Rogers and Barnes Orphanage is not affiliated with the Garbage Orphanage for Wayward Orphans, but you should totally check that out anyway-- missjanedoeeyes and d-lightfulexcess on Tumblr.}
> 
> {Feel free to prompt me on Tumblr at star-thief for more chubby!Stucky!}


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